


Keep Those Secrets Safe

by ecaitlin



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brainwashing, Kidnapping, M/M, Sexual Content, Torture, canon-typical Bucky warnings, death of a parent mention, unhealthy alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 100,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2786399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecaitlin/pseuds/ecaitlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being declared dead in a plane crash on the way to Paris, James Buchanan Barnes appears out of nowhere five years later and everyone wants to know what happened to him. All Bucky wants is to go back to the life he was forced to leave behind, but he quickly realizes that not everything is exactly as he left it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had started this fic after finishing a marathon of every Arrow episode to date, and it began as an Arrow AU that sort of... got away from me. Very, very far away from me. Instead, this fic takes elements from the show, sort of, as well as CA:TWS, and kind of got tangled into something different along the way.
> 
> (Title from Ed Sheeran's Friends.)

 

Bucky is still a kid when he first meets Steve, and he's not very good at making friends. Bucky is likeable, and charming, but most of the kids his age that go to his school know who he is the moment he sticks out his hand and says his name. In Bucky's world, the name  _Barnes_  means something, and they've already decided how they feel about him: if they decide they like him, he never needs to put any effort in; if they decide they  _don't_ , well. Bucky isn't going to beg anyone to be his friend.

But at the park, with a baseball cap tilted down over his face and dressed in the same kind of clothes that all the boys his age are wearing (though marginally more expensive, probably), he's just  _Bucky_  and that doesn't mean anything to anybody. He's not the son of the woman who was on the front of every newspaper last week, shaking hands with important people. He's not the boy who learned how to tie his own tie before he learned how to throw a football. He's just any other kid hanging out at the park, which means that, if he wants to make friends, he's gotta do something about it.

He wants to be friends with the blond boy who sits alone at the picnic table.

He decides this on a whim when he passes the picnic table on his search for a hotdog stand that he spotted earlier, Gameboy swinging loosely from one hand as he walks. The boy's been sitting there for a while, barely even looking up, thin hand curled around a pencil, entire body curved over the book he's writing in. He's not hanging out with the other kids, doesn't seem to have any friends nearby, and Bucky wants to fix that.

Problem is, he doesn't know how. Does he just go over there, stick out his hand and ask the kid if he wants to be friends? Maybe Bucky should ask him what he's writing because he looks pretty interested in that notebook. Or is that weird? Bucky doesn't know. He's never had to do something like this before.

But then, on Bucky's third, inconspicuous loop around the surrounding area, a group of boys walk past him, heading straight for the picnic table. Disappointment floods through him as he realizes the boy at the picnic table must already have friends. He doesn't need Bucky. If Bucky tries to go up to him now they'll all probably laugh at him, or worse— ignore him.

He goes to walk away, cursing himself for not doing something when he had the chance, when he hears a distressed sound and that low, cruel laughter he's trying to save himself from.

Bucky looks back just in time to watch the blond boy fall to the ground. One of the others picks up the book he was writing in, tossing it away from them, pages fluttering, and Bucky gapes. They're still laughing, loud and mocking, but it's not at Bucky. It's at the boy on the ground, and Bucky realizes he's wrong: they're not his friends. They're definitely not his friends.

"Hey!" he shouts before he can stop himself, running over. "What are you doing?"

The blond boy struggles to his feet, looking surprisingly fierce for someone so damn tiny, Bucky thinks to himself. There's no fear in his eyes despite the fact that the other boys are twice his size, and he boldly steps right up to the kid who threw his book and says, "You can't touch other people's things without their permission!"

"Oh yeah?" the boy who threw the notebook challenges. He towers over the blond, taller and wider and a lot more intimidating. "What're you gonna do, Steve?"

" _You're_  going to apologize," Bucky says, instinctively moving between the two of them. "And you're going to go get his book and bring it back to him."

"Yeah," the boy snorts. "Sure I am." He rolls his eyes, turning to elbow one of his friends in the gut as he says, "Come on. We got better things to do."

Bucky glares at their backs as they turn away, resisting the urge to go after them because his mom might not ever let him come back to the park if she finds out he got in a fight. He feels helpless, though, like he didn't do enough, like he  _should_  say something else to them, and he goes to apologize to the blond boy when he spots the notebook a few feet away, lying dejectedly in the grass.

He can do  _this_ , at least. He can get it back.

The front cover is crumpled and it falls open to a page of a messy sketch when he picks it up. Bucky tries not to look at it, figuring it's an invasion of privacy, but he can't help sneaking a peek and finds a rough outline of the trees across from the picnic table that the boy must've been drawing. It's not bad, Bucky thinks. His mom likes art a lot, has tons of expensive pieces on the walls of almost every room of his home, and Bucky has never paid much attention to them; he can still tell when something's  _good_ , though. This is good.

When he gets back to the picnic table the blond boy is wiping dirt from his jeans, sighing and frowning down at his hands when he's done.

"I think they ruined your book," Bucky admits, holding it out to him. "Sorry."

"It's fine," the boy says, taking it. He tries to smooth out the cover but it's creased and it won't shut properly. He doesn't give up, determinedly bending the book to try and get its shape back, but they both know it's a lost cause. "Only cost a dollar anyway."

"I could buy you a new one," Bucky offers, sounding more hopeful than he means to.

The boy gives him a funny look. "No, thanks," he says, tucking the book under his arm.

Bucky bites his lip, knowing that this is his only chance to make a new friend and if he doesn't do something now it'll pass him by. "What about a hotdog?" he blurts, and then he winces, wondering how stupid he can be.

"A hotdog," the other boy repeats.

"I was gonna get one when I saw them push you," Bucky lies. "I could get you one, too, if you want."

The boy gives Bucky another funny look; Bucky starts to understand that maybe offering to buy them things is not the way to get new people to like you. What else are you supposed to do, though? Bucky doesn't have much else to offer, really.

"I can buy my own," the boy says firmly, chin tilting up in defiance.

"Oh," Bucky says quietly. "Right. Well. Sorry about your book."

Bucky only gets about five steps away before the boy catches up to him, touching Bucky's shoulder lightly as he says, "I think the hotdog stand is that way," while pointing behind them.

"Oh," Bucky says again, sounding overly hopeful once more. Does this mean—?

"I'm Steve, by the way."

Bucky tries his best not to grin like an idiot. "Bucky."

Steve gives him a sidelong look as he leads the way, seeming to know the park a lot better than Bucky does. He smiles at most of the people they pass, ruined notebook tucked firmly under his arm. There's a question on the tip of his tongue, Bucky can tell, and he keeps frowning at Bucky when he thinks he won't get caught. Bucky knows what's coming before it happens.

"You look familiar," Steve finally says. "Is Bucky your real name?"

"It is," Bucky says slowly. "That's what everyone calls me, anyway."

"People call me a lot of things," Steve says. "Doesn't make all of them my name."

This was inevitable. It's not like he could've hid it forever, and if he and Steve are to be friends he's going to find out at some point. Might as well be now.

"James Barnes," Bucky says, sticking out his hand.

Steve doesn't take his hand. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, and it takes him almost a full minute to recover before he asks, "As in  _Barnes_  Barnes?"

It's the last name that always gets him. When your parents own entire neighborhoods of buildings and their faces are on the cover of the local paper almost weekly, most people know who you are. It's not something that's ever bothered Bucky, exactly, but sometimes it sucks having people know a lot of things about you before they've even said one word to you. It's like the whole world has already made up their minds about you, and nothing you say or do can change that.

"Yep," Bucky says, sounding nothing more than casual even though he knows this is the part where Steve either fawns all over him or starts to hate him for no reason.

"But your family owns, like,  _everything_ ," Steve says.

"Not everything," Bucky says wryly. "They don't own this park."

Steve snorts at that, grinning, and says, "My mom's a nurse. She's not rich but she makes the best cookies."

"My mom can't bake at all," Bucky admits. "One time we had to stand outside for half an hour and wait for the firemen to get all the smoke out of the kitchen because she tried to make a cake."

Steve laughs like this is the funniest story he's ever heard, and Bucky realizes that Steve is going to be different. Steve isn't falling all over Bucky, the way some kids at school do, but he doesn't hate Bucky, either. He just doesn't seem to care at all that Bucky's parents are rich and famous.

"Come on," Steve says, leading them through the park. "I know the guy who runs the hotdog stand. He'll give us sodas for free. He likes me."

Just like that, Bucky decides that befriending Steve was the best idea he's ever had.

 

-o-

 

Befriending Steve was the worst idea Bucky's ever had.

It's way too early in the morning when Bucky wakes up to short, light knocks at his door. He groans, tugging his blankets up over his head, but he stayed at his parents' house last night instead of his apartment downtown, and his old bedroom doesn't have the same blackout curtains that his condo does. The bright light filters in through his heavy blanket anyway, and whoever's at the door knocks again.

"Come in," Bucky groans, pushing the blankets down to his chest.

"Good morning," a member of his parents' staff says as she peeks her head into the room. "Mr. Rogers is here to see you."

"What time is it?"

"A little after nine, sir."

"God," Bucky says, pressing his palms to his eyes. "Tell him he can wait outside until at least eleven." She hesitates, like she's actually going to do it, so Bucky sighs and says, "Just let him in."

"Right away, sir. Should I have someone bring up breakfast? Coffee?"

"Coffee," Bucky says longingly. "Orange juice for Steve. Please."

The woman nods, giving a slight bow before she pulls the door closed. Bucky throws the rest of his blankets off, searching around his room for the shirt he threw off last night, and spots the suitcase sitting in front of his old closet, packed full of things for his trip. The trip that forced him to stay at his parents' house for the night because they wanted to have a family dinner before he left for a week. The trip that he really, really doesn't want to go on.

Ugh. It's too early. It is  _way_  too early.

"It's nine," Steve says, coming into the room and perching on the edge of Bucky's bed, "and you have a plane to catch in an hour and a half. Get up."

Instead, Bucky swings his legs out of bed, turning his body around, and lays his head in Steve's lap. Steve hardly even reacts, used to this, and only moves enough to card his hand through Bucky's hair.

"I don't want to go," he says, looking up at Steve with a pout that has never, not once, worked on Steve the way it works on everyone else. Which he usually likes, most of the time, but right now he doesn't. He wants Steve to tell him he doesn't have to go so he can feel better about it when he decides to cancel.

"You have to go," Steve reminds him.

"I don't  _have_  to do anything."

They both know it's an act. If there's anyone in the world who doesn't expect Bucky to be an entitled, spoiled brat, it's Steve. He knows that Bucky hates that people always do whatever he asks them to, without hesitation, not because they want to but because of his parents and how powerful they are. That power intimidates even the strongest willed people into doing what his family wants, but Steve knows that Bucky doesn't ever  _ask_  for that, or take advantage of it.

But he still doesn't tolerate it when Bucky pretends to be as much of a douchebag as everyone expects him to be.

"Yes, you do," Steve says patiently. "It's just a wedding. It won't be that bad."

"I don't want to go without you," Bucky retracts, closing his eyes against the feeling of Steve's short, blunt nails on his scalp. "You know I hate going to these things alone. Can't you just come as my date?"

Steve's fingers still. "Date?"

"Not— not like  _that_ ," Bucky says, sitting up quickly. "I just—  _God_ , you know how boring these things are. I've dragged you to enough of them."

He has. It's been years since Bucky's had to don a suit by himself and attend the dozens— maybe hundreds— of parties or charity events or weddings or balls he's invited to or his parents host. Steve makes them a hell of a lot more bearable. Instead of having to interact with every person who meets his eyes, Bucky can hold up with Steve in a corner, laughing and attempting to sneak a bit of champagne, or at least force Steve to make conversation with him instead of the boring people who always attend these things.

Bucky dreads the times when Steve can't come with him, when he has other things to do, his own plans that he can't just put on hold when Bucky asks him to. (And don't get him wrong, he loves that about Steve, that he  _won't_  just drop everything because Bucky wants him to, but damn it, he really hates going to these things alone.)

"You don't  _drag_  me," Steve says, lips twitching. "I sorta like them."

"No, you don't."

"Okay, I don't," Steve admits, "but I like watching you squirm and try to make nice with people when you couldn't care less."

"Maybe I like watching you squirm too," Bucky says, careless of how that sounds, too busy poking his finger into Steve's side, right into that spot he  _knows_  makes Steve shiver and laugh and try to shove him away with more force than those scrawny arms of his should be capable of.

"Bucky," Steve hisses, already breathless, batting his hand away. "You need to get up and get ready to go."

"You giving me orders now, punk?" Bucky teases, reaching for Steve's side again.

Steve jumps up off the bed before Bucky can tickle him again. "Yeah, I am," he says with authority, attempting to give Bucky his sternest look. "You need to shower. You smell."

"How about I make you a deal?" Bucky offers, leaning back on his arms, legs spread out in front of him. "I'll shower if you agree to come with me."

"To Paris," Steve says flatly.

"To Paris."

"Right. I'll just go and book a last minute, first-class ticket there. Or better yet, how about I call my private jet-pilot and make sure he doesn't have any plans for the night?"

"You know you'd be flying with me on my plane."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "I can't just drop everything to fly to  _Paris_  with you. And I'm not on the guest list to the wedding, in case you didn't think about that."

"So they'll make an exception. If I call ahead and tell them I'm bringing someone, they'll make room."

"Bucky," Steve says, eyes narrowing. "Shower."

"Alright, alright." Bucky pushes himself up, brushing against Steve's side as he heads for the bathroom as if his room isn't huge enough for about thirty people and it can't be avoided. He's going to be gone for an entire week. He's getting his fill of Steve while he still has the chance to. "At least promise me you'll stay outta trouble while I'm gone?"

"I don't get into trouble," Steve says, so innocently that Bucky almost believes him, except he knows Steve better. Not that Steve actively looks for trouble, but Steve is the type of person that can't watch someone else being treated badly without trying to help. And trying to help usually leads to Steve with a black eye and Bucky with bloody knuckles and some newspaper or other trying to write up an article about it before his parents' people stop them.

"Dumbass," Bucky says fondly as he pushes open the bathroom door, leaving it cracked for now as he heads for the sink. He takes one look in the mirror and gets what Steve meant. He really does need a shower. "No fights. At least until I'm back. If I come home and you're in the hospital or something, there'll be hell to pay."

"I won't get into any trouble," Steve swears.

Bucky turns on the water, grabbing his toothbrush, but this conversation isn't over yet. "Yeah," he says as he slathers toothpaste on his brush, "like I'm buying that. Remember the last time I left for two weeks and I came back and you had a broken arm? Or what about that time you—"

"Bucky."

"I'm serious, Steve. You're a worrying person." He brushes his teeth, mint washing away the foul morning taste from his mouth, but he doesn't let it go. "I'm gonna get premature grey hair from you, I swear."

" _Bucky_."

Bucky sighs, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot, and finds Steve sitting on his bed (now made, with such precision that Bucky's mom would be impressed, if she seen it, and it takes a lot to impress his mom) with his hands folded in his lap and a serious look on his face.

"What?" Bucky asks, toothpaste dribbling down his chin. He wipes it away absently and Steve snorts at him.

"You too," he says. "Don't get into any trouble either, okay?"

"Think I'm less likely to get into trouble in Paris than I am in New York," Bucky points out, but he's grinning. "Nice to know you care, though."

"Of course I care."

Bucky's grin widens. "Yeah, I know."

"Now go—"

"Shower," Bucky finishes for him. "You nag more than my mom, you know that?"

Steve flips him off, grabbing the book on Bucky's nightstand, and Bucky finally shuts the door between them. He rinses his mouth, turns on the shower, and doesn't think about the fact that Steve is outside the door as he strips off his clothes and steps under the spray of scalding hot water. Only he does think about it, a lot more than he should, and it's not just the water making him feel too warm all over.

Steve is still reading, a coffee and glass of orange juice sitting beside him on the nightstand, when Bucky comes out in a towel and riffles around in the dresser that still holds some of his clothes, though most of them are a bit too tight. He doesn't want to open his suitcase, doesn't trust it to close again if he does, so he squeezes into an old t-shirt and jeans and yesterday's boxers while Steve's gaze doesn't once move away from the book.

"If you threw that really hard at my head, I bet I wouldn't have to go," Bucky says as he falls back onto the bed, his hair still wet. He shakes his head just so the water droplets can hit Steve.

Steve shoves him. "Stop that," he says. "I'm not sending you to the hospital so you don't have to go. It's  _Paris_. Most people spend their entire lives dreaming of going to Paris. You've wanted to go for years."

"Yeah, but not without you. You're supposed to be coming with me."

"We're gonna have to get used to doing things without each other," Steve says, kindly using 'we' instead of 'you' though they both know that's what he means. "You're heading off to school in California at the end of the summer, and I'm staying here. We have to split up eventually, Buck. Think of this like practice."

The thing is, Bucky doesn't want them to get used to it. Since the day he even applied for that damn school, he's been regretting it. He did it to make his parents happy, and the only reason why they allowed him to get the condo at all was because of it, but he's been wondering how to get out of it ever since. The thought of moving across the country, sitting in boring classes every single day without Steve's corny jokes to lighten the mood, leaves Bucky filled with dread. Ever since that first day they met, he can't remember going more than a few weeks without seeing Steve, and those were rare occasions. Now that he's going to have to, for so much longer, Bucky finds that he really, really doesn't want to.

Bucky needs Steve.

That's not something he can say out loud, though. They cross the line all the time, him and Steve, without even meaning to. That thin line between friendship and something more is so blurred that Bucky hardly even notices it anymore, but he knows that saying out loud that he's gonna be lost without seeing Steve's stupid face every damn day is definitely going to be crossing it.

"I'll bring you back a souvenir," Bucky offers.

"Nothing expensive," Steve warns.

"I'll find you the cheapest, ugliest miniature Eiffel Tower I can manage."

"Just don't try to wrap it," Steve says. "You suck at wrapping."

"I suck at a lot of things, Rogers," Bucky says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"That's not funny," Steve says, but he laughs as he shoves at Bucky's shoulders, eyes bright and a little shinier than they should be. "I'm gonna miss you, you know."

"I know."

"Good."

"You about to get emotional on me, Stevie? Better be careful. Keep talking like that, you might give people the wrong idea."

"Don't act like you're not gonna miss me just as much."

Bucky bites the inside of his lip, holding back everything he wants to say. It's easier to just pull Steve into him, rest his chin on Steve's head for a moment, and try not to let on too much that he  _is_  going to miss Steve. More than he cares to admit.

When he pulls back, Steve's looking up at him, a hand on Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky doesn't even think. It's instinctual, the way he leans down and presses his lips to Steve's. Soft, quick. He jerks back the second he realizes what he's doing, falling back against the pillows and staring resolutely up at the ceiling like that didn't just happen.

"What—?" Steve sounds shocked. Bucky refuses to look at him. "What was that?"

"It was nothing," Bucky says quickly, forcing a grin. He tries to playfully push Steve back for earlier but he puts a little more force into it than he means to and Steve almost rolls off the bed, putting more distance between them than there'd been a moment ago. "I'm going to Europe. They do that kind of thing over there, you know? When in Rome and all that."

"You're not there yet," Steve says, eyebrows knit tightly together.

"I'm practicing," Bucky lies, tugging at the too –tight fit of his shirt. It feels suffocating all of a sudden. "I don't want to go over there and be the weird touristy guy who has no idea what he's doing."

"Right," Steve says, slow enough that Bucky knows he doesn't buy it. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Bucky to fuck off, or storm out. He looks at Bucky's mouth for just a moment, still frowning, and Bucky rolls off the bed and to his feet before he can look into it.

"I should probably wear a sweater to the airport," he says, heading to the closet. It's better stocked than the dresser, with old suits that he should probably donate and a handful of expensive designer sweaters. If he bothers to look, there's probably an old box of his things on the top shelf, too, but all of his important stuff has been moved to the condo already.

"You probably should," Steve says, seemingly happy to change the subject. "What's the weather even like over there?"

One of these days, they're gonna have to talk about it. One of these days they're not going to be able to brush something like this off, because this isn't the first time it's happened and Bucky knows it won't be the last. He's just happy that that day isn't today.

"I have no idea," Bucky admits. "Better to be safe than sorry, right?"

"That's not really a term I'm intimately familiar with," Steve jokes.

"It sure as hell isn't," Bucky agrees as he pushes around the sweaters on their hangers, trying to find the biggest one so it'll fit better than the shirt he's wearing. He does after a moment, a blue thing that's worn and old, and wonders why he didn't bring it with him when he moved out because this sweater has been his favorite for years. "I need to say goodbye to my parents and the girls before I go. We'll drop you off at home on the way to the airport."

"It's not on the way."

Bucky zips up the hoodie and says, "So?"

"I'll be fine. I'll take the subway."

Bucky makes a face at that. He  _hates_  the subway, not that he's been on it many times. If his mom finds out about even the one time, she'll probably have a fit, and Bucky doesn't really blame her. The thought of Steve riding that thing alone, especially at night, like he sometimes does, drives Bucky insane. But Steve point blank refuses to take one of their cars ever, stubbornly independent to the point of stupidity, and Bucky has learned to just accept this but send Steve a hundred texts during the ride so he knows Steve's okay and hasn't been, like, mugged. Or murdered. Or both.

Steve's a city boy. He can handle himself. (Bucky worries anyway.)

"Suit yourself," Bucky says, knowing there's no point in arguing.

"I do." Steve slips off the bed, grabbing Bucky's suitcase, and ignores Bucky when he tries to take it himself. "You go say goodbye to your sisters. I'll wait downstairs."

Once again, Bucky knows a lost cause when he sees it. He lets Steve take the bag, makes his way down the hallway while Steve goes down the stairs, and knocks on the door to the first bedroom.

It's the weekend, and sleeping in seems to run in the family. Bucky wakes his sisters up and makes promises to buy each of them the greatest gift he can find, gets three equally tight hugs, and knows he'll miss his sisters just as much as he does Steve. The hardest part of moving out had been leaving them behind, and sometimes he still regrets that he doesn't get to wake up to one of them pounding on the door every morning to ask him to make them cereal even though there's an entire kitchen staff downstairs who would gladly do it for them instead, or asking him for a ride to this place or that.

By the time Bucky makes it downstairs, they don't really have time to drop Steve off at home even if Steve changes his mind. He looks at the watch on his wrist, realizes how little time he has, and is about to make his way to his father's office when the door opens and the man himself strides out, someone following after him.

Bucky is good with faces, most of the time. Growing up with the parents he has, Bucky knows that connections are everything and making a good impression comes closely behind. Floundering for someone's name is the best way to make a bad one, and he prides himself on remembering who most people are. He recognizes Alexander Pierce instantly, even if he can't remember exactly what it is that Pierce does.

"James!" his father calls, a smile on his face that Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror. "Are you leaving?"

"Running late," Bucky confesses. "I slept in."

His father shakes his head, not at all upset with him because he's always been the laidback one. "You've said goodbye to your sisters, I hope? They'll never forgive you if you leave without getting a proper send off."

"Already did. Em and Jo went back to bed, I think."

"Are you going on a trip?" Pierce interrupts, looking curious.

"Paris," Bucky answers. "For a wedding."

"Ah, the city of love," Pierce says wistfully.

"I'm hoping it lives up to its name," Bucky jokes. Steve makes a choking sound. Bucky tries not to look as pleased about that as he feels.

"Well, have a safe flight," Pierce wishes him.

"And call your mother when you land," his father orders. "You know how she is." He looks over Bucky's shoulder. "Speaking of."

"Did you pack a toothbrush?" his mother asks as she briskly makes her way down the hallway in a pantsuit, like always. "A razor? Comb? Advil? You know flying gives you a headache."

"Got everything I need," Bucky confirms.

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Mom, I'm an adult."

"No, you're my child, and you're terrible at packing. If you forgot anything I'll have it sent to you, don't worry. And tell Margret that I am deeply sorry for missing the wedding. I'd be there if I could, but from one business woman to another, she knows how busy our lives can be. Tell her we'll do lunch next time she's in the city."

"I will."

"And be on your best behavior, James," she says sternly, ignoring his eye roll. "Margret and her family are very important to us. No elbows on the table when you eat. And give your mother a hug, hurry up, you're going to be late."

He does, trying to dodge the kiss she presses to his cheek, and then he gives Steve a wide-eyed, pointed look, and Steve starts for the door, ready to make a quick getaway.

"I'll see you when I get home," Bucky says, already backing away. "Love you. I'll call, I promise."

"I hope you packed a sweat—"

The front door closes behind him as he quickly darts out it, and Steve is already down the steps, laughing at the look on his face. "Does she realize you're not twelve anymore?" Steve teases.

"Shut up," Bucky groans.

"You got lipstick on your cheek."

Steve laughs even harder when Bucky wipes at his face. He tugs Bucky's suitcase down the walk, heading for the car waiting for them, and the driver steps out, taking it from him and loading it into the trunk. The cool air breezes over them as they wait, Bucky sweating in his sweater, Steve's hands shoved in his front pockets.

"So," Bucky says.

"So," Steve says.

"This is your last chance to change your mind and come with me, you know."

Steve laughs once more, forced and faint. He looks like he wants to say something, and Bucky waits, but they already said everything inside. Bucky reaches for him instead, draws him into a hug, and Steve hesitates for a moment before pulling his hands out of his pocket and gripping Bucky tight. They hug for longer than they probably should.

"Sir? I hate to interrupt, but we need to leave now if you want to make it to Paris on schedule."

Reluctantly, Bucky lets Steve go. "I'll see you?"

"I'll be right here," Steve promises.

Bucky nods, resisting the urge to pull Steve into another hug, and climbs into the car before he does something dumb. The windows are tinted heavily, but not enough that he can't see Steve and, behind him, the house. There's a small face in one of the windows upstairs, pressed against the glass, and Bucky smiles, trying to wave, but the car pulls away and leaves everything behind.

The drive to the airport is a slow one, but at least he has one thing to look forward to. Their private jet is comfortable and spacious, even if he doesn't want to go, and the seats are cushioned and designed for optimum relaxation. He's asleep almost the moment he gets settled in and leans his head back, dreaming of bright lights and pretty cities, foreign languages and being all alone somewhere he's not familiar with.

 

-

 

When he wakes up, Bucky knows something's wrong. There's a knot of worry settled in his gut, twisting and churning his empty stomach. Somewhere in the plane, someone is shouting. He looks out his window and for a moment he's convinced he's still asleep, that what he's seeing isn't real, but they're plummeting down fast, fast enough to make something in his chest flutter, and it looks like the only thing that's going to stop them is the ground, getting closer with each passing second.

He's never been more afraid in his entire life.

 

-

 

When Bucky comes to, everything hurts. He's certain his leg is broken, it feels like he's on fire, and his entire left side is in agony. He blinks through the smoke clouding his vision and filling his lungs, and what he sees looks like a nightmare. Twisted metal, flames, something heavy settled on his left arm.

This is hell, he thinks. But he's not in hell. Not yet.

Someone pulls him out of the wreckage.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Five years Later**

No one at the hospital seems to know what to do with him. Bucky is quiet, answering the questions they give him as well as he can, but they all look at him like they've seen a ghost. Which makes sense, given the fact that he's been presumed dead for the last five years.

He can hear his mother in the hallway as the doctor looks over him (and his arm) for the hundredth time in the last week. She's finally stopped crying and has been out of the room for more than ten minutes— a new record. She sounds furious, though Bucky can't hear exactly what she's saying, and he's happy that her voice doesn't sound thick with repressed tears any longer. He doesn't want her to cry over him.

They want to bring in a specialist, have someone look at his arm, but his mother is refusing and Bucky is glad for it. He looks down at the metal, curling his hand into a fist, and notices the doctor warily watching his movements like she's afraid he's going to attack. He tries to give her a reassuring smile; he's not sure it works.

"You seem to be in near-perfect health, Mr. Barnes," the doctor says slowly, like she doesn't quite believe it. "Most of your wounds are superficial. They may cause a bit of pain over the next few days while they heal, but they're not of much concern. Though I would suggest another day or two in the hospital, to allow us to monitor you, you may be released today, if you wish to be."

Monitor. The word makes him feel itchy, anxious. He shakes his head. "I'd prefer to leave."

The doctor doesn't look pleased by this but she nods anyway, accepting his choice. She finishes up, putting away things she'd used during his exam, and then, with one last confused, curious look, slips out the door. His mother steps through it almost the moment it shuts.

"They want you to stay," she tells him, her eyes only slightly red, "but we're bringing you home. Is that okay with you, sweetie, or would you like to stay?"

Since he woke up after the plane crash, Bucky's thought about little else but getting home, getting back to his family. He hadn't anticipated that, after so long, things would be different. He hadn't expected the way he woke up in the hospital to his mother leaning over him, sobbing, screaming, refusing to let anyone get too close to him as she cried, "My baby. My baby. I knew you weren't gone. I knew you were alive."

All his life, his mother had been a frosty woman. It's not something that ever bothered him. She loved him, he always knew it, but she was never the type to cry in front of him—if ever— and her tears had rattled him. His father, on the other hand, was the one with the cold look in his eyes as he sternly pulled his wife back but warned the doctors to be careful when touching him. Bucky always figured his mother to be the strong one out of the two of them, but that viewpoint has completely changed over the last few days. Everybody can be broken, if you know what their weaknesses are, no matter how strong they seem. Strength is a matter of circumstance.

"I want to go home," Bucky says. The word feels weird in his mouth.  _Home_. For the last five years, home had been a small cell with a thin mattress on a floor and little else, at first, and then an equally small room with an actual bed when they'd decided he earned it, but he doesn't say that. If they knew the truth they wouldn't be letting him out of the hospital any time soon. They'd probably have him admitted for insanity if he even attempted to explain to them exactly what happened, so he hasn't bothered.

They keep asking anyway, no matter how little he says. Doctors, first. Then the police. His parents. The specialist they brought in to judge his mental state and make sure he wasn't going to be a danger to himself or other people, to make sure he's got it together enough up there to be back in the real world.  _Do you know how you got to the hospital, James?_ No. He doesn't.  _Where have you been?_  He doesn't know. That's the truth, mostly.  _Has something been done to you?_ Yes.  _Can you tell us what?_ No.

This is what finally made his mother stop crying, he thinks. The tears stopped and she got angry. "Something has been done to my son," he'd heard her say furiously through the door earlier. "I want to know what."

Bucky hopes she never, ever finds out. No matter what her imagination can come up with, it's better than the truth.

"Good," his mother says now, smoothing a hand down his arm. His right arm. She won't even look at the left one, flinched the one time she accidentally touched it, though he doesn't blame her for it. It takes a bit of time to get used to. Luckily for Bucky, he's had that time and then some. "Your sisters wanted to come visit you but I didn't want them to see you in the hospital. They're still having a difficult time understanding what's happened but they'll be so happy to see you."

Bucky doesn't wince. He's had a lot of experience with keeping what he's feeling to himself. "I meant the condo," he says, quiet but clear.

"What?" She looks stunned. "No, you're coming home with us. You need to be with your family. After what's happened to you—"

"I don't want to see them yet," Bucky says, even quieter. "I'm not— I'm not ready for that."

The tears threaten to come back at those words. "Oh," his mother says. "Of course. I understand. I'll come home with you, then, and in a few days—"

"I'd rather be alone."

He doesn't mean for those words to hurt, he really doesn't, but he can tell that they do.

"I just want to help," his mother whispers. "I can't do that if you won't let me. If you won't talk to me."

Bucky swallows. "I'm fine." He's said this more than anything else in the last few days, and hopefully soon they'll start believing it.

"You are  _not_  fine, James Buchanan Barnes, do not lie to me. I don't know what they did to you, but you're safe now, do you understand that?"

Safe isn't a word that belongs in his vocabulary anymore. "I know," he lies. Anything to get out of here. He hates the hospital, always has, and that's only gotten worse after everything that's happened. The smell of it makes his stomach churn and the people prodding and poking at him are testing the last of his restraint. If he doesn't get out of here soon, he's going to snap.

It's been a long time since he's had to really talk to someone, instead of just answering questions or replying to orders, but he used to be good at it. Charming. He could've talked his way out of anything, before, and he tries to channel that now.

"I'm tired," he says. It's the truth. He's exhausted. He hasn't slept a full night in almost the five years that he's been gone. "I just need a bit of time to adjust. Time to myself. I'll come home in a day or two."

His mother looks like she wants to argue. Thankfully, she doesn't. Instead she nods, a little too stiffly, and Bucky has to force himself not to think about how much she's aged since he's been gone. It looks like fifteen years have been added to her life, not five, and he wonders how many of those wrinkles between her eyebrows are his fault.

"Okay," she finally agrees. "Okay, if that's what you want, but the doctors said— they think it might be good for you to talk to someone. Someone to help you deal with everything that's happened."

"A therapist."

"Think of it more as an adjustment counselor, sweetie. It might help, and I've gotten the numbers of highly recommended… adjustment counselors that would be just perfect for you to speak with."

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes. "Okay. I'll think about it."

"Wonderful." She nods once more, to herself, and calls, "Mr. Barton, could you come in here a moment?"

Bucky is expecting another doctor; that's not what he gets. A man walks in, dressed in clothes that are perfect for fighting in. Loose enough to allow easy movement. Dark, to make it easy to blend in. Enough pockets to hide a plethora of weapons. There's a cut on his cheek, mostly covered by a bandage, and a gun at his belt. Bucky tenses, his guard up instantly. There're a hundred things in the room he could use as a weapon, but his body is the best bet. Throw himself in front of his mother, get her behind the hospital bed, tackle the guy, take the gun, a single shot to the head and he'll no longer be a threat.

This all plays out in his head in a matter of seconds. He can picture it, the way the blood and the body will look on the floor, but Bucky doesn't move and the man doesn't draw his gun.

"James," his mother says calmly, as if sensing his discomfort, "this is Clint Barton. For the next few weeks he'll be your personal bodyguard. If you leave the house, he'll be with you. If you have any problems, he'll be there to protect you."

Clint smiles. "Nice to meet you," he says, extending his hand.

Bucky looks at it, then to his mother. "I don't need a bodyguard."

"Yes, you do." There's no room for argument. "I will not have you taken from me again. If that means hiring someone to protect you, so be it."

Bucky's jaw clenches but he knows better than to argue. She won't give this up, he can tell, and— fuck it. If it makes her feel better, he'll deal with this, too, on top of everything else.

"Fine."

"The car's around back," Clint says, seeming unbothered by the tension in the room. "There're reporters out front. Figured you'd want us to avoid them."

"I'll deal with them," his mother says. "You get him home safely. And James? I love you. I— I didn't say that enough, before, and I'm sorry for that."

It feels like someone's sitting on his chest. "You said it enough," he promises.

He almost hugs her— almost— but he stops himself at the last second. He doesn't want to put his arm around her, not with the way she looks at it, and he doesn't trust himself enough anyway. He wasn't lying when he said he wasn't ready to see his sisters, but it's more than that. He's afraid of seeing them. Afraid of them seeing him.

Afraid of himself.

 

-o-

 

He'd worried, at first, that they hadn't kept his condo. It would've made sense for them to sell it, get rid of it, but when he unlocks the door and steps inside, it's like nothing's been touched. It's like no one has been inside since he left. There's a fine layer of dust over everything, but all of his things are exactly where he left them. His remote is even on the couch from when he'd tossed it there carelessly the day before he left.

He has no idea where Clint went, after he'd dropped Bucky off out front, but he's glad that the whole 'bodyguard' thing doesn't extend to him following Bucky into the apartment. He doesn't need anyone to witness the way he completely breaks down when he shuts the door behind himself.

It's like coming back from the dead. Everything is the way it was, but  _he_  isn't. He's not the same person, not by a long shot, and after everything he's seen, it's— it doesn't feel real. This place. This city. This life he left behind. It's like stepping into a TV show you've watched for years, all the people and places familiar, but it's not  _real_.

He touches the marble counter in the kitchen and it feels real. The leather couch in the living room is cool and smooth. The glass coffee table hard. He sinks down onto the couch, just to do it, and tries to remember what it was like to do this every day. To do normal things.

Bucky leans back, head resting on the couch, and finally lets it hit him.

He's home. He's actually home. He thought they were going to kill him, but instead they—what, let him go?  _Why_? After so long, why would they finally do that? He'd tried to escape so many times, has the scars to prove it from the bullets that put him down, but then they just… drop him off at a hospital and let him go on with his life like the last five years never happened? It doesn't make sense.

When he closes his eyes he can see it. See the room he woke up in after the crash. He thought that waking up in the wreckage was the worst of it but he'd been so wrong. The bright lights of the lab, the faces peering down at him, mistaking it, at first, for a hospital. Only people go to hospitals for help, and they weren't helping him.

There're things missing when he tries to remember the rest of everything that's happened. He frowns, his head aching when he tries too hard; his memory is an old piece of paper, folded and wrinkled and covered in rips and tears. Entire chunks of the last five years are dark and blank when he thinks about them. Faces are blurry. They did something to his mind and he's not as surprised by that as he should be. After all, he should know better than to think there's a limit to what they would do to him.

Bucky opens his eyes again, looks down at his arm. He remembers punching through concrete with it, in a large, spacious room with a mat, people watching him do it, videotaping him, writing down things on clipboards. Monitoring him. He remembers fighting with it, too, what it feels like to crush someone's bones with it.

He feels sick. He runs to the bathroom, leans over the sink, and nothing but liquid comes up. He wretches for what feels like hours before his legs are strong enough to hold him again without having to lean on the counter, and then he finally looks in the mirror.

They never let him look in mirrors. What would be the point? He was allotted showers, when necessary or when he'd behaved himself enough to earn them. Someone trimmed his hair and cut his beard for him when it got too bothersome. He hasn't gotten a good look at himself in a very long time, and he almost doesn't recognize the reflection staring back at him.

His hair has never been this long in his life, hanging into his eyes and over his face. He looks older, doesn't look like the barely-adult he was when he'd gotten on that plane. His jaw is wider, his cheekbones more prominent, and his eyes are haunted. There's stubble darkening his face, something he never allowed, before, always keeping himself clean shaven instead. He looks like a mess. He looks  _dangerous_.

He tugs off his shirt and finds his body littered with scars and harder than it ever used to be. He was in shape, used to like to run, but this is different. There're strong muscles under the taught skin of his stomach, and his arm— the one still made of flesh and bone— is thick and corded. The spot where the metal arm connects to his body is mutilated, ridged with scars and angry looking, but he already knew that. When they'd attached it, they hadn't been careful. He'd passed out through the procedure and woke up with it, and there'd been an infection from the wounds that nearly killed him. At the time, he'd wished it had.

He takes his time to look at the shirt before he pulls it back on. It's never been worn, expensive, obviously picked out by his mother, given the soft blue colour. She always bought him blue shirts. It's too tight. Maybe she grabbed it out of the closet at the house. Maybe she went out and bought it without realizing that he doesn't fit in his old sizes anymore.

It's too much. Bucky shuts off the bathroom light and moves to his bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling window shows the city splayed out before him, but he ignores it, heading straight for the bed to run his hand along the comforter. He never used to make his bed. Someone  _has_  been in here since he left, and the picture on his bedside table is further proof of that. It's of him and Steve from graduation, Bucky's arm draped over Steve's shoulders, and it's facing away from the bed instead of towards it, the way he'd left it.

So they moved his picture but left everything else the way it was. Either they really did think he was alive and coming back, or they were too devastated to bring themselves to sell this place. Both options riddle him with guilt, and it doesn't help the rest of the emotions going through him.

Too much, he thinks again. It's all too much. He thought he'd be relieved, getting home, but he's not. He can't handle it all.

There's a bottle of whiskey in his cupboard, left there for years, that he wasn't legally allowed to drink when he'd gotten it. It's half full from a night spent with— what was her name? He can't remember. Kelly, Katherine, Kim. Something like that. He tries to picture her but he can't.

The alcohol burns when he swallows it, and he figures he shouldn't be drinking. He does it anyway, just because, and halfway through the contents of the bottle everything starts to soften and what was too much before becomes slightly more bearable, if only because he can't really remember all that much when everything is spinning.

There's a house phone on the stand by the door and Bucky grabs it, his fingers fumbling with the numbers. He scrolls through the programed contacts, finding the one he's looking for, and presses talk. It doesn't even occur to him that the phone shouldn't work after all this time.

" _The number you are calling is out of service_ ," a pleasant, robotic voice informs him.

Bucky bites his lip. Of course it is. Five years is a long time, right? Not everything is going to be the way he left it, but he needs to— he needs to see Steve. His parents hadn't even mentioned Steve once at the hospital, and now that he thinks about it, why hadn't Steve been there? His sisters he understands. He's glad they weren't there, and he figures his parents were probably trying to protect them from the state Bucky's in, but Steve should've been there. Unless they weren't letting Bucky have any visitors, and Steve had  _tried_  to be there but wasn't allowed.

That seems more likely. Psychologically, they weren't sure how badly Bucky had been damaged when he'd first woken up in the hospital. They probably had to make sure he wasn't gonna attack anyone before they let him have visitors.

Bucky swigs back more of the alcohol, nodding to himself as he looks around the apartment, and makes up his mind.

He's not entirely sure how he gets downstairs. He doesn't remember the elevator ride, but the bottle is still in his hand when he stumbles past the shocked doorman and out into the brisk, late-night November air in nothing but the long-sleeved shirt he's wearing.

"Um. Your mom didn't exactly give me a list of rules, but I think I'll be fired if you get arrested for public intoxication on your first night back."

Bucky whirls around, bottle raised like a weapon, and blinks when he finds Clint standing behind him, leaning awkwardly against the car they'd driven here in, keys held tightly in one hand. Clint, who's supposed to come with him everywhere he goes, so he's supposed to drive Bucky places, too. Clint, who, Bucky is starting to realize, might be an asset. They don't know each other from before so there's none of that painful familiarity that he'd found in his condo. He doesn't care about Bucky, the way his parents do, so he's not going to ask questions like  _are you okay_ ,  _sweetie_?

"I need to go somewhere," Bucky says, the words fumbling on their way out of his mouth, weirdly thick and running together.

Right. He's drunk. That's what happens when he's drunk. He forgot.

"Okay," Clint says slowly, eying the bottle. He hesitates, just for a second, and then pulls open the back door of the car. "Where?"

"Brooklyn."

If Clint has any questions, he doesn't voice them. Bucky slides into the car, taking another sip of the alcohol once he's pulled on his seatbelt because he's afraid of the world focusing again right now, while Clint climbs into the driver's seat and starts the vehicle.

The city passes by in a blur of colours and buildings. When Clint asks  _where_  in Brooklyn he wants to go, Bucky tells him the name of the park closest to Steve's mom's apartment, one they used to hangout at when they were younger. He gets a weird look in response, but Clint doesn't argue.

"So, uh. Am I allowed to ask what we're doing?" Clint wonders when they get to the park. "Or is that a no-no?"

"I used to hangout here," Bucky says, looking around.

The car is just behind them, the wind is whistling through the leaves. Bucky frowns as he tries to figure out which direction Steve's place is. The park looks different than he remembers it, less frightening than it used to be at night, but then again, not a lot scares him anymore.

"Cool," Clint says. "I actually live, like, two—"

With Clint's back turned, bottle held tightly in his hand, Bucky bolts. He hears footsteps pounding on the concrete behind him a beat after he starts running, but Bucky is fast. Drunk, but fast. He rounds the nearest corner, then the next, trying to throw Clint off his trail. He doesn't want Clint to follow him to Steve's because he knows he's going to be a mess if things don't work out, and Clint will tell his parents, and they'll probably force him to come back home if they realize just how much of a mess he really is.

Bucky loses Clint and almost loses himself, too, but he knows these streets like the back of his hand, even drunk and after five years of not being in the city. He ignores the looks he gets from the few people still out this late, looking up at each building he passes until he finds the right one.

He nearly walks right past it. It's nicer looking than it is in his memory, like someone's been trying to fix it up. At least one window used to be smashed out at all times, but now they're all in perfect condition and the buzzer and lock on the front door actually work. Bucky scans the list of names, tries to figure out which one belongs to Steve's apartment, only the names are all smudged and the apartment numbers aren't beside them.

One good, sharp tug with his left hand and the lock breaks, the door swinging open. He can pay to fix that when he's in a better headspace, he promises. He really needs to do this right now and he had no other choice.

There's still no elevator, like Bucky remembers, but he takes the stairs as fast as he can even though it's getting harder to lift his legs with each step and the edges of his vision are going dark. He grips the bannister tightly, pulling himself the rest of the way, and then stumbles onto Steve's floor, looking around to locate the right door.

He knocks louder than he means to. A dog barks from inside another apartment. It's so late. He shouldn't be here this late. He shouldn't be here like  _this_ , a drunken mess. This isn't how he wants Steve to see him after being gone for so long, but it's too late and he can't go back now.

The door opens and Bucky blinks through the bright light, looking up at the man who's answered the door. The man who's tall, wide shouldered,  _huge_. Not Steve. Definitely not Steve.

"Bucky?" the man says, loud and stunned.

"You're not Steve," Bucky says, and then the world tilts, he hears the smashing of glass as his bottle slips from his hand, and he's pretty sure he passes out.

 

-o-

 

Bucky wakes up with a headache in a room that is familiar and not. He sits up slowly, not because of his head but because he thinks this is some kind of test. Something  _they_  are using against him, like a set they've constructed just to fuck with his mind more than they already have, but— no, that's not it. He looks at the window and finds the notches in the sill that measure his and Steve's heights from the time they were kids until they were sixteen. Bucky's get up high, almost to the top, while Steve's slowly inch their way after him, never getting very close after they hit puberty.

It's too real to be something they've constructed, the details too precise for them to know or copy, and Bucky remembers getting here, the drinking and running from his bodyguard (he's such an idiot, his mother is probably flipping shit right now, why would he do that to her?) and knocking on the door to Steve's apartment. Steve's  _old_  apartment.

It wasn't Steve who answered the door, he remembers that too. Which explains the fact that this room looks different now. The bed's bigger, isn't pushed against the far wall like it used to be. Steve's desk isn't in the corner, the board of his sketches isn't hanging on the wall. His posters are gone. Everything's painted brown.

For the first time since he's been back, he thinks he's definitely going to cry. There're cotton balls in his throat and it's not alcohol blurring his vision now. He kicks off the blankets, presses his heels to his eyes until it stops, and then sucks it up and tries to figure out what to do from here.

Out in the apartment, he can hear someone moving around. Voices. He doesn't want to face people right now but he can't stay here in this room that he has so many memories of that has changed just as much as he has.

His shoes are on the floor by the bed, neatly lined up. Someone must've taken them off for him. Someone must've got him into bed. That's— weird. How many people take in drunk strangers who pass out at their door? Bucky's guards go up, suspicion rising, and he scolds himself for not bringing a weapon when he left the house. He should know better by now than to ever go anywhere without a way to defend himself, but his body should be good enough if there're any problems.

He pulls on his shoes and carefully opens the door, stealthily leaning into the hallway to listen. "— all over the news. It's all speculation. No one knows what happened. Some people think he just left, ran away after the crash, that he's been hiding out in another country and decided to come back years later."

"I don't believe that. He wouldn't leave willingly."

Bucky's eyes narrow but he can't really blame them for discussing him, whoever they are. Shit like this doesn't happen every day, and hadn't Clint said that there were reporters outside the hospital? Everyone must be curious. Bucky would be, if it wasn't about him.

He stops being stealthy, lets his feet fall heavily as he steps out of the room and down the hallway. The layout is the same, at least, the hallway leading to the open living room and kitchen. 

Bucky's memories from last night are fuzzy but clear enough that he recognizes the guy with his back turned at the counter as the one who answered the door last night. There's another leaning beside him, facing Bucky, darker skinned, a cup of coffee in one hand. Bucky smells bacon.

"Uh." The one facing Bucky puts his drink down and elbows the other. "I think he's awake."

The one who answered the door turns around, spatula in hand, mouth hanging open. He doesn't say anything, and whatever he's cooking starts to smoke as he stares at Bucky in a way that makes Bucky shift from foot to foot, calculating the distance to the door or even the goddamn window, if he has to take that way out.

"I'm gonna go," the one with the coffee says. "I'll see you later, alright? Call me."

The other snaps out of it, shaking his head as if to clear it. He moves the pan off the heat and says, "I will."

The smaller one leaves, shutting the door firmly behind himself, and Bucky is left alone with the humongous blond that answered the door last night, darting looks at him as he stirs around whatever he's cooking. "That's Sam," he says over his shoulder, like that's supposed to mean something to Bucky.

"Okay," Bucky says. He's really not good at talking to people anymore.

"I'm making bacon. There's coffee in the pot, if you want some. Sugar should be beside it. You still like your eggs sunny-side up, right?"

Bucky smoothly hides his surprise behind narrowed eyes. "How do you know that?"

The guy turns back around and Bucky sees clear, unadulterated heartbreak on his face. It makes Bucky stumble back a step, though that's not the only thing that does. Blond hair, that full bottom lip, those blue eyes. The body distracted him, the width of the shoulders, the height, the sheer size of him, but Bucky should've noticed anyway. Everything clicks into place, puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly, only the picture they make isn't what he was expecting.

"Steve," he breathes.

Awkwardly, the guy— Bucky can't think of him as Steve— rubs at the back of his neck. "Guess I shouldn't be all that surprised that you don't recognize me, huh?"

Bucky can't breathe. He takes a step forward, then another, getting a closer look, but he doesn't really have to. Steve's face is imprinted in his mind, something that no amount of time or space could ever wash away, and he'd know it anywhere, always, even when the rest of him is unrecognizable. Steve had always been thin, short,  _tiny_. Even puberty hadn't put much meat on his bones, and Bucky doesn't see how— it doesn't make any  _sense_. His head aches from trying to wrap his mind around it but he can't.

He knew things would be different. He knew and accepted that. But this? This isn't different. This is— he doesn't know what this is, but it makes him feel sick.

"How?" he asks. "I don't—  _what_?"

"It's a long story," Steve says. Or he thinks it's Steve. He has Steve's eyes and his mouth but hardly anything else. "I'm sorry, Buck, I—"

Bucky shakes his head, jerking back. "I don't understand."

"I know," Steve admits, "but I—" A sound rips through the apartment and Bucky jumps like a spooked animal. He recognizes it after a moment, the national anthem, and Steve pulls a cellphone out of his pocket, wincing down at the screen. "Crap. I have to—"

Bucky bolts. It's the only thing he  _can_  do because it feels like he's losing his mind and he can't stay a second longer. Running away from Steve isn't something he'd ever imagined doing, yet that's exactly what he does. Steve calls after him— his voice is familiar, almost the same as it was, and Bucky can't take that either— but Bucky keeps running, out the door and out of the building, and nearly smacks right into Clint.

"Morning," Clint says, his arms folded tightly over his chest. He doesn't look all that happy.

Bucky doesn't ask how Clint knew where to find him. He slides into the backseat and says, "Take me home."

So Clint does.

-o-

Bucky showers when he gets home to clear his head and to get the stench of alcohol and sweat off his skin. The images painted on the back of his eyelids flicker between the usual horror and the new one he found in Steve's mom's apartment. No matter how long he stands under the spray, things don't get less confusing. Steve was always sick growing up, had so many ailments sometimes Bucky wondered how he was still alive, and now he's…

There's no explanation for it. There isn't. No amount of working out, of healthy eating or living, could change Steve's body the way it's been changed. Maybe puberty hit him late, but that can't be it. Puberty  _did_  hit Steve, before, even if it hadn't made him much taller or bigger. It deepened his voice, made his Adam's apple more prominent, squared his jaw off a bit, made his hands wider and his fingers longer, almost out of proportion with the rest of him, nearly dwarfing the pencils he used to sketch with. So how the hell does his skinny best friend go from weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet to being the picture of physical perfection?

Because that's what he'd looked like. Steve had never been less than perfect in Bucky's eyes, but now he's what the rest of the world considers perfect. Tall, muscular, broad and beautiful. If Bucky didn't know better he'd think that Steve has a brother and that's who he met today, someone who looks like him,  _sort of_ , but not really.

Only he'd called Bucky 'Buck' and there's no way to fake the look that had been in his eyes.

Bucky steps out of the shower, feeling no more calmed than he had when he'd gotten in. He sighs, dries off, and takes the medication the doctors prescribed for him that they'd sent him home with.

It's hard being back and adjusting to living in a way that normal people live. He has freedom now to do whatever he wants, and he isn't used to it. There's no one waiting around every corner, ready to punish him or push him back into that cell they'd started him out in if he doesn't obey them, and it leaves Bucky floundering a bit.

What did he do before? He liked to go to parties, but he can't do that now. He liked to hangout with Steve, but that's not an option either. He liked to read. He liked to go see movies and watch TV. He liked to attend baseball games and sometimes spend his entire day on the couch, something he was only free to do after he'd moved out and got his own space.

He can do that now. He finds clothes in his dresser, as untouched as everything else, and grabs the loosest pair of sweatpants he can find, pulling them on. That one thing, so simple, makes him feel worlds better. Not good, not even close to being okay, but better. It's a step towards normal, and he takes another by flopping onto the couch.

He turns on the TV, surprised to find the cable still working. He figures his mother probably had someone set it up for him while he was in the hospital for a week, even if she had expected him to go back to the house instead. She's always been thorough, and she's better when she has something to do. In fact, that's probably why his bed had been made. It wasn't someone who came in while he was gone, it was someone she sent to fix the place up after he'd returned.

Flicking through the channels, he tries to remember what he used to watch, what stations are the best, but he winds up on the news, his own face plastered in the corner. It's an old picture, his hair is still short, and he's smiling. He almost changes it, doesn't want to hear what they have to say about him and his return, or his supposed death, but the image on the screen changes abruptly to a frazzled looking woman somewhere in the city, her eyes wide and her microphone clutched tightly in her hand.

"— _attacking the city. No leads yet on who is behind this attack, but as you can see_ —"

Bucky barely hears the words the reporter says. They flicker in one ear and out the other as, on screen, a man flies through the air. Or a machine, more accurately. A machine shaped like a man, with things flying from the palms of his hands, hitting men with guns on the street below as they try to shoot at him. The footage isn't taken by a professional cameraman, seems to be filmed on something of a lot lower quality, but it's clear enough.

The entire screen is suddenly blocked by a blur of blue, red and white, moving even faster than the man in the air. Someone runs after it, the same colours only this time it's definitely a person, and the first blur comes into focus when the man grabs it. A shield. The person filming chooses the new man instead, capturing him throwing the shield and hitting one of the dozens of men surrounding him with the thing. It ricochets, takes out another, then another, before coming back to him, and then he leaps into the air, throws himself into the horde, and by the time he comes back out everyone else is on the ground, taken out.

Bucky has never seen someone fight like that, and  _they'd_  trained him with some of the best. They forged Bucky into a weapon, designed to kill and skilled enough to do it, but the man on screen is like moving artwork.

He finds himself leaning forward in his seat, trying to get a better look as the footage changes to someone else with a camera, capturing another man in the sky, only this one isn't in a suit. This one has  _wings_. And then a woman fighting with even more deadly grace than the man in the blue, red and white. A man with a hammer and a cape.

It's like a movie, only the footage keeps cutting out to one reporter or another, and it's all a little too gritty to be anything made by Hollywood. A large green  _thing_  throws a person into a building, and Bucky recognizes the sign for Florence's Flowers, a shop he used to walk past nearly every day on his way to get coffee from Starbucks.

What the  _fuck_?

" _Once again, the ever controversial Avengers have stepped in to save the day. Despite being outnumbered one hundred to one, the masked men attacking the city have been contained to two blocks and are falling fast. But with significant damage yet again done to the surrounding area, the question on everyone's minds is: who is going to pay for this? And should we trust our safety in the hands of vigilantes, or should we leave the police work to the actual police?_ "

The Avengers. Bucky's been gone five years and an actual, honest-to-fucking-god group of superheroes have taken over the city. He starts laughing before he can help himself, the sound rusty and odd. It's been a long time since he's had something to laugh about, and even though it's half-hysterical, he clings to the knowledge that he still knows how to do it.

Normal. That's what Bucky thought he was coming back to, but instead he gets people in skintight suits and others that can fly. Jesus Christ. He's probably dead. That makes more sense than half the shit he's seen today.

The apartment is quiet when he shuts off the TV and goes on a search for the laptop. It takes a moment to start up, and his fingers slip awkwardly over the keys, unaccustomed to using it. He's too curious to give up, though, and he finally gets Google open and types in  _Avengers_.

Instantly he's flooded with results, the top one being from just ten minutes ago with shots from what he'd watched on the news. He skips that, going down to older posts, and clicks the first link. And then the next. And the next. His eyes move over the words quickly, and then the images. Iron Man. That was the one in the metal suit. Falcon. The one with the wings.  _Captain America_. He snorts at that one, the most ridiculous of all of them, the stupid skintight suit and the even stupider name for someone who moved like he was something more than human.

Two hours pass before he realizes, spent reading and watching videos. His heart is pounding weirdly in his chest, like anxiety only in a good way.  _Excitement_. It's something he hasn't felt in so long that it takes him a moment to understand what it is.

Over the past five years, they've saved millions of lives. Not all of the articles on them are flattering, a significant amount of people believing they're doing more harm than good, but that's bullshit. Aliens. Robots. Bombs. They've fought everything, and they've won. It's surreal.

For one stupid, naive moment, he wonders if maybe this is what  _he_  was trained to do.

It passes quickly. They didn't want him to save the world, he knows that much. When they stuck this machinery to his body, when they taught him how to hold a gun and how to pull the trigger, how to incapacitate a man as quickly as possible and dodge bullets, they weren't preparing him for anything good.

That thought nags at him, leaves him once again trying to peer through the dark spots in his memory, but it's useless. Whatever they were planning on doing with him, he can't remember. And why they apparently deemed him unfit to do it and released him is just as much of a mystery.

But maybe he can take what they did to him and do something good with it. He can fight. He could save people instead of— Maybe he could take the nightmare they put him through and turn it against them.

A different feeling than the excitement from earlier sparks in his chest.  _Hope_. He's been standing in the pits of hell for so long that he hardly even notices the flames licking at him anymore, but finally he thinks he can see a way out of it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

" _We hadn't taken into account how badly the crash would affect him. He is damaged."_

" _No. He's perfect."_

" _Sir, I don't see how…"_

 _"Until Insight is completed, we need a way to defend it and ourselves. We need a way to eliminate anyone who might attempt to put an end to this project._ _You seem to think that an army is the best way to do this, but I keep telling you that you're wrong. We don't need destruction, we need precision. Don't you realize who he is? If we can mold him into exactly what we want, he, alone, will be enough."_

" _You seem to be forgetting that he has no previous training._   _What you're proposing, it could take years."_

" _So be it."_

" _And, frankly, I'm not sure we will be able to convince him to join us."_

" _Convince him? Who said anything about convincing him? I don't want you to rally him to our side. I want you to break him and put him back together into something I can use. Weren't you the one begging me for a test subject? Now you have one." A pause. "And do something about that arm."_

Bucky jolts awake to an echo of his own shouts ringing in his ears. He's panting, slick with sweat, and it takes him a minute to realize that he's not in the cell, curled in on himself for warmth. He's in a bed.  _His_  bed. At home.

It takes another moment for that to sink in, with his hands fisted in the covers and the light from the city illuminating his room. He hadn't shut the curtains when he went to bed, didn't want to wake up in the pitch black, and he's glad for it now. He's not even sure how he managed to fall asleep, only he'd been so exhausted from the day that he hadn't been able to keep his eyes open any longer.

A floorboard somewhere else in the apartment creaks and Bucky stops panting. He goes completely still, head tilted to the side, breath held. The hairs on his arm are standing up, and there's an itch at the back of his neck, a prickling of warning.

Another creak and Bucky is out of the bed and on his feet, swift and silent. He reaches beneath one of his pillows, pulling out the knife that he'd stashed there before he'd gone to bed, and creeps across the room, pressing his ear to his bedroom door.

And then the door bursts open, throwing him backwards, but the knife doesn't slip from his grip and Bucky doesn't stumble and trip the way he would've years ago. No, he's too good for that. He knows his body too well to be unbalanced, quickly placing his feet to brace himself, crouching low enough to put momentum into it when he springs forward, darting out of the bedroom because there's no room to fight.

The man follows him, the crack of a gun so loud in the open space of the rest of the apartment. Bucky doesn't see where the bullet hits, but he throws the stand in the hallway out behind him, trying to obstruct the man's path, and then he whirls around, ready.

There's no hesitation in his movements. He barely pauses long enough to take a look at the intruder— under six feet tall, muscular, built for force and not speed, gun in his right hand, no wonder he made so much noise— before he attacks, striking out at the hand holding the gun with his left, hearing the crack of bone and the clatter of metal on wood as the gun falls out of man's grip. A kick to the legs, and the guy gets one good punch at Bucky's jaw before unexpectedly dropping, picking up the gun, shooting again. It goes wide, the bullet smashing the mirror hanging in the hallway.

Bucky drops his knife and grabs the man by the throat, pushing him against the wall. Through the black mask covering the man's face, Bucky can see the shock and fear in his eyes as they bulge, his airways cut off. His legs dangle above the ground, kicking uselessly, his hand feebly clawing at Bucky's arm to try and get him off, but he's not strong enough and his other hand is useless below the broken wrist.

His eyes blink slowly, his heart beat slows under Bucky's other hand, and Bucky knows he's killing him. Can feel the fragility of this man's life underneath his hand, completely at his mercy.

Bucky's fingers are already loosening when someone behind him says, "You don't want to do that. The police are gonna be here in two minutes."

The body slumps to the floor, unconscious but alive, and Bucky turns around to find Clint standing behind him, the door to his apartment left wide open, with his gun raised and pointed at the figure on the ground. He looks calm but capable of taking the shot without hesitation if he needs to, and for the first time Bucky considers that maybe he's underestimated Clint.

"I wasn't going to kill him," Bucky says. "I wasn't."

Clint nods, as if to say,  _sure, buddy_ , but his gun stays in his hand and doesn't lower until the police pound their way down the hallway.

 

-o-

 

They wheel the unconscious man out on a gurney and Bucky watches with a bit of detachment, knowing how close they were to wheeling out a dead body instead. He doesn't like all the people in his apartment. It puts him on edge more than the man breaking in and trying to kill him. At least Bucky was allowed to fight him; the police officers he has to tolerate, and the EMTs barely listen to him when he says he's not hurt.

Because the people invading the precious personal space he's only just gotten back isn't enough, he also has to deal with trying to calm his parents. Clint hands him a phone and he spends the next five minutes consoling his mother, promising her that she doesn't need to come over, he's fine, he's safe, no she's not going to fire Clint, he did his job, Bucky is  _fine_.

"I have to go, the police have questions," is what finally gets her to stop. She hands the phone off to his father instead, and it's like a repeat of what just happened only his father is slightly— very, very slightly— more calm, and he doesn't threaten to fire Clint for not stopping the intruder from getting into his apartment in the first place.

He wasn't lying when he said the police have questions, either. The moment he hands the phone back to Clint they pounce on him like scavengers on a carcass. It's overwhelming, and Bucky feels himself inching closer to the hallway, wondering what they'd do if he just locked himself in his room and refused to talk. Clint is right at his side, blocking Bucky's path like he can tell what Bucky's planning, but instead of being pissed, Bucky is a little bit grateful for it.

Then, to top it all off, Steve strides into his apartment as the police are finally leaving, Clint trailing after them to answer any last questions they might have. It's four in the morning. Bucky is too tired for this.

He can tell the moment Steve realizes that going in for a hug is a bad idea. He stops, right in front of Bucky, eyebrows drawn together in concern, an expression that Bucky isn't all that used to seeing because it was always  _Bucky_  being concerned, and Steve the object of that concern. But of course, everything else has changed, Steve drastically, so why shouldn't this be different too?

"You're okay?" Steve asks, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Why are you here?" Bucky demands.

Steve recoils at that, wounded, but Bucky hadn't meant to—damn it, hurting Steve wasn't his intention. It was a question, plain and simple. He's forgotten how easily words can be twisted to sound a way they weren't meant to sound.

"Your mom called," Steve says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not hurt."

"That's not what I meant."

Bucky needs to put space between them so he heads to the kitchen, washing his hands over and over. There's an ache in his jaw from being hit, and there's broken glass in the hallway, and he'll have to avoid his neighbors for the indefinite future or else they'll want to know what the shouting they heard was, why the police were here, why they heard gunshots. Not that he wouldn't have avoided them anyway, but now they'll have an actual reason to come to him with their curiosity.

"Bucky," Steve tries.

Thing is, Bucky doesn't want to look at him.  _Can't_  look at him, because if he keeps his back turned he can almost pretend like the Steve talking to him is still his Steve, and not this new one that he doesn't even recognize.

"I'm fine," Bucky says as he reaches for a glass and fills it with water. He guzzles the entire cup down in one go, suddenly dehydrated, and fills it again when he's done.

"If you want me to go…"

" _No_." The glass shatters in his hand and he's grateful he was holding it in the left, not the right, or there'd be a bloody mess to clean up. He looks down at the shattered remains, stunned by what he's done without even meaning to, and expects Steve to look just as horrified as his mother had the first time she'd laid eyes on his arm.

Instead, Steve still looks worried.

"I don't want you to leave," Bucky states, stepping away from the counter.

"But it doesn't seem like you want me here either," Steve points out.

Bucky sighs, scrubs his right hand down his face, and tries to collect himself. "I just need a minute," he says. "To adjust."

"Okay," Steve allows.

Bucky nods, looking him over yet again. He's wearing a brown leather jacket over a t-shirt (since when does he wear  _leather_?) and Bucky is again taken aback by how much of Steve there is to look at now. He actually has to look up, just a bit, to look into Steve's eyes, and his head spins from it. Unconsciously, he takes a step forward. Then another. He gets close enough to touch and Steve doesn't move away, so he does. He pokes Steve's chest, because it seems like the thing to do, and almost doesn't believe it when Steve feels solid and real. He's sort of expecting Steve to dissolve the moment they come into contact.

His hair is different, too. It used to hang over his forehead a bit sometimes, but now it's short and neat and perfectly styled. His legs look thick in the jeans he's wearing, no longer bone-thin and scrawny.

It doesn't even  _matter_ , Bucky realizes. Steve is Steve. Whether Bucky's looking down at him or up, he's still Steve and Bucky has always needed him. That hasn't changed.

"So you've, uh. You've been working out, huh?" Bucky says to break the tension.

This time Steve doesn't stop himself. He pulls Bucky into a hug that's so tight he can't breathe, enveloped in arms that are so much stronger than they used to be. Steve smells the same, laundry detergent and soap, and Bucky lets himself have this, clings back because he has to.

"I missed you," Steve says into his neck. "I missed you so much, Buck."

"Missed you too, Stevie," Bucky says, rubbing at Steve's back through the soft leather of his jacket. "Can't tell you how much."

"I went to your funeral," Steve whispers, pulling back just a bit, not letting go yet. "I watched them lower your coffin into the ground." He takes Bucky's face in both his hands, looking at Bucky the way Bucky had looked at him, seeing something he doesn't believe is real. "You were just— gone. Five years you were  _gone_."

Steve is shaking, his hands clammy on Bucky's skin. He ducks his head into the crook of Bucky's neck again and Bucky's shirt feels damp where Steve's humid breathing is soaking through it. "I'm okay," he says, because it's the only thing he can say. "I'm sorry. I'm okay."

Bucky can't take seeing Steve like this, broken and hurt. Guilt and his own grief weigh heavily on his shoulders, and he needs to make it stop. He takes it upon himself to do it, stepping forward, guiding Steve back until he can carefully untangle Steve's arms from around him and push him down onto the couch. Steve's face is red, his eyes puffy, and Bucky doesn't know what else to do but say, "Just— sit."

When they were younger, Steve's mom used to make them tea when they were upset. They got suspended once, for fighting, and Bucky had been so scared of what his parents were going to say that he refused to go home, running away to Steve's instead. She made him tea, sat with him until his parents came to pick him up, and then talked to his mom for him. He never liked tea before that, thought it was something gross that adults pretended to like to seem more mature, like alcohol, but he liked it after that.

That's what he makes now. He finds the teakettle, a gift from Steve's mom when he moved in, and fills it with water methodically, all his old habits coming back to him so easily now that he has a reason for them to. He's not aimlessly standing around, wondering how the hell he's supposed to adjust to living again. He has something to do. A purpose.

Steve's collected himself enough by the time Bucky comes back to the couch, leaving the mug of tea on the coffee table. His eyes are only kind of red now, no longer puffy, and he's not crying. His jacket is sitting on the back of the couch.

"I'm sorry," Steve says. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that. Guess I needed a minute to adjust too."

"Don't think I've ever seen you like that," Bucky admits. Steve was always the one who held it together.

Steve laughs halfheartedly. "Yeah, well. When I come back from the dead after five years and you don't shed a tear, then you can talk."

"Don't even joke," Bucky says sharply.

Steve laughs again and reaches for the tea, taking a long sip. "Can't remember the last time I had tea," he says, closing his eyes to savor it.

"Your mom been slacking while I was gone?"

Steve's eyes flick back open, and Bucky doesn't know what he's done wrong, but it's definitely something. "You don't know," Steve realizes.

"Don't know what?" Bucky asks, though, judging by the look on his face, he doesn't want the answer.

Steve closes his eyes again, leaving his tea on the table and leaning back against the couch. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking slow breaths. "She got sick," he says slowly.

Bucky shakes his head. "No."

"It was fast. They couldn't fight it. They tried, but nothing worked."

"Steve."

"A year after you were gone. She left me the apartment."

He pictures Steve alone, dealing with that, and suddenly he wants to break a lot more than a fucking glass. "I— _shit_." He tugs a hand through his hair, unable to get enough air into his lungs. "I should've been here. I'm, fuck, Steve, I'm so—I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Why did he think that everything would be the same when he got back? Why did he think that he could come back to his perfect life after everything and nothing would be changed? He's an idiot. He's such an idiot. Grief, for himself and for Steve, and shame make Bucky feel sick. He loved Steve's mom. Steve and her were so close. It was always just the two of them, and now she's—

"I got through it," Steve says steadily. "I'm okay."

Yeah, well. Bucky got through everything that happened to him, too, and he's not fucking okay. The only reason he's still holding it together is because he knows he has to, for the sake of his life and for the sake of the people in it who won't be able to handle it if they find out just how far gone Bucky actually is. Bucky knows that the brave face he's putting on is the only thing keeping them from locking him up again, in a different kind of cell for his own good this time instead of someone else's.

Steve doesn't look okay either. Past the change in his body, there's a wariness to him that didn't used to be there, something defensive in the way he sits with his shoulders bent forward like he's preparing to fend off a blow. There's a dullness in his eyes Bucky can't remember ever seeing, the light inside of him dimmed. Steve has always been strong enough to hold it together when other people wouldn't be able to, but Bucky can see how that's chipped away at him over time.

Steve doesn't deserve this. Any of this.

"I should've been here for you."

Steve frowns at him, a thousand thoughts flickering in his eyes. "Where— where  _were_  you, Bucky?" he asks, a distraction and a genuine question rolled into one.

Bucky almost tells him. It's too hard to keep things from Steve. All his life he's blurted out nearly everything the moment Steve asked him to, but he can't. Not on top of what's already happened. Steve's been broken down enough; he's not going to give Steve another thing to be pained about. Bucky can protect him from this, if nothing else.

"We'll talk about it later," he says. Steve sucks in a breath, about to argue, so Bucky yawns, loud and exaggerated, and lies down with his head in Steve's lap like old times. "Stay here tonight?" he asks to divert the conversation away from dangerous territory, but also because the thought of Steve leaving makes him feel panicked and anxious.

Steve hesitates, only for a second, and then cards his hand through Bucky's hair. "Got nowhere else to be."

Bucky releases his held breath and closes his eyes. This is what it feels like to relax. Bucky had almost forgotten.

 

-o-

 

He wakes up sometime a few hours later to Steve asleep, sitting in the exact same position he was in when Bucky passed out. It's bright out, looks closer to afternoon than morning, and Bucky has no idea how he slept so long. He's not used to it, and he feels disoriented as he sits up, watching the slow rise and fall of Steve's chest as the fog of sleep lifts from his mind. He gently shakes Steve's shoulder.

Steve wakes slowly, eyes batting open, and stares at Bucky in the sunlight before he reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Bucky's cheek. "Not a dream," he says quietly.

"We fell asleep on the couch," Bucky says, stating the obvious.

"That explains the crick in my neck." Steve groans, rubbing at it as he stretches. His hair is rumpled and his shirt is creased, and his eyes look all huge the way they always do when he first wakes up.

Bucky feels himself smiling before how happy he is even hits him. It engulfs him, too much to take, and Steve smiles back, tentative at first and then full-blown and stupidly big. He's got this look in his eyes, one he gets when he's about to get them into trouble, and Bucky missed it so much he can't think.

"You want to do something normal?" Steve asks, and it's so far from the mischief Bucky is expecting but it seems weirdly fitting anyway.

"I could use a bit of normal," Bucky says.

"Let's go out and have breakfast."

"Breakfast," Bucky repeats.

"I know a great place," Steve says. "Best waffles you'll ever eat."

Bucky considers this, considers whether or not he's ready to face the rest of the world, but he has to sometime. What's the point of putting it off? And he needs to go see his family, too. Maybe it's best to do a test run on people he  _doesn't_  know, and then go see them. If he can't handle sitting in a restaurant for an hour, then he can't handle going back home and putting on a brave face so he doesn't scare his sisters.

"Is it busy?" he has to ask.

"Not usually."

"Okay." Bucky nods. "Okay. Just let me change."

Steve nods, stretching out the kink from sleeping in such a weird position, and Bucky pauses in the hallway, watching him. It's still throwing him off, how Steve looks, but watching his shirt ride up past the waistband of his jeans is—

He shakes his head, continuing on to his bedroom, but something glinting on his floor just inside the door makes him pause. He bends down, picking it up, and realizes it's a pin with some sort of symbol on the front. A skull with tentacles. It tugs at his memories, nagging at him, and he knows he's seen it before. Printed on a wall, huge and red, but he can't remember where.

And then he does, and he drops the pin like it's on fire. He leans against the wall, legs feeling weak, but he shouldn't be surprised. He knows exactly where that pin came from. The guy last night who broke into his apartment. And he knows where he's seen it before, too. In the building where they kept him prisoner for the last five years.

It takes him longer to come out of the bedroom than it should've if he'd been just changing, but if Steve notices, he doesn't say anything.

 

-o-

 

Clint is downstairs when they get there, sitting in the car reading. Bucky almost walks right past him like he doesn't notice, but he doesn't want Clint calling his parents and telling them he gave Clint the slip again. His mother hired Clint for a reason, and that's because she's concerned for him. If having Bucky shadowed every time he leaves the house takes a bit of weight off her shoulders, fine.

"He can drive us," Bucky says, nodding to where Clint is playing some sort of game on his phone.

Steve gets this odd look on his face, cheeks flushed, but he gets into the car anyway.

"Steve," Bucky says as he pulls on his seatbelt, "meet my bodyguard. Clint, this is Steve."

"Oh, uh, right. Hi. Nice to meet you," Steve says, sticking his hand up between the two front seats.

"Nice to meet you too… Steve," Clint says, taking Steve's hand.

There's something odd about the exchange that Bucky doesn't understand, but maybe he's just imagining things. He looks between the two of them, frowning, but Steve is smiling his polite smile and Clint is turned back around, starting up the car, so he chalks it up to him not being used to being around normal people and forgets about it.

He's too busy being nervous about going out anyway. He rubs his hands on his thighs, even though only one of them is actually sweating, and looks out the window. Steve is a calming presence beside him, but Bucky really isn't sure if he's ready for this yet. It's only been days since he was released from the hospital. He hasn't even been back two weeks. He's not— he shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be going out.

The farther away from his apartment he gets, the more anxious he feels. His leg is jiggling, restless, and his breathing doesn't sound even. Steve looks at him, a question in his eyes, but Bucky just shakes his head and looks resolutely out the window.

"We can go back to your place," Steve murmurs, quiet enough that they can pretend someone else isn't listening in on the conversation, whether Clint can help it or not. "Order food instead. We don't have to go out."

Bucky smiles, only half-forced. "I want to go out."

Lying to Steve is impossible. "Bucky."

"You said they have the best waffles, right? I wanna see if that's true."

Steve sighs his 'you're being an idiot, Bucky Barnes' sigh, yet he doesn't push it, doesn't tell Clint to forget it and take them back.

When they pull up to the curb, Bucky steels himself and gets out of the car before Steve can change his mind. The restaurant—  _diner_ — is small, stuck in a neighborhood that Bucky can't remember visiting before, and Steve wasn't lying: it's nearly empty.

The moment they step inside, Bucky is assaulted with the smell of greasy food. There's only one booth in the entire place in use, taken up by an old couple. Bucky looks around, quickly cataloguing the layout in his mind so he can get out quickly if he has to. Steve walks right on past him, heading for the middle booth on the left side of the diner, and Bucky follows after him and calculates exactly how many steps it takes to get from there to the door, and then settles in with his back to the counter, facing the windows and the door they'd just come through.

"Steve," someone says, and Bucky jumps a little. "To what do I owe this honor? I don't think I've ever seen you in here while the sun is up."

Steve grins. "Came for the waffles."

"Doesn't everyone?" The waitress— Emily, the nametag on her chest reads— smiles down at both of them, a pot of coffee in hand, but she nearly drops it when her eyes land on Bucky. "Oh," she says breathily. "Oh, you're—"

"I'd love coffee to start," Steve says loudly. "Bucky, what about you?"

Bucky pulls his eyes away from her and nods, and the waitress pulls herself together, surprise smoothing over into that same friendly smile she'd greeted Steve with as she pours coffee into the mugs already on their table. She slides both of the menus under her arm towards them after she does, says, "I'll give you a few minutes to look that over," and then hurries away.

"What did she mean by that?" Bucky asks when she's gone.

"Huh?" Steve grabs one of the creamers from the basket on the table. "What did she mean by what?"

"That she's never seen you here when the sun is up."

"Oh." Steve shrugs sheepishly and dumps the cream into his coffee. "They're open all night," he explains as he rips open a pack of sugar. "I come in here sometimes. When I can't sleep."

"That happen a lot?"

Steve shrugs again. "Sometimes."

For the first time since he's been back,  _Bucky_  is the one to ask, "Are you okay?"

"I'm great," Steve says, grin still in place. "Even better now that I know you are."

"I hate it when you do that," Bucky mutters as he takes one of the sugars and adds it to his own cup. "When you smile and pretend to be fine."

Steve's jaw clenches, but instead of denying it he asks, "Did you figure out what you want to order?"

Obviously he hasn't, since the menu lies in front of him, untouched, but Bucky knows better than to try and get Steve to talk when he doesn't want to. No one in the world is more stubborn than Steve Rogers, so he sighs and flips open the menu and scans it quickly.

"Rebecca's in high school now," Steve says as he reads. Bucky looks up. "It freaks me out. I remember when she was born, and now she's practically an adult."

"You visit them?"

"When I can," Steve says. "Not often, but sometimes. It wasn't easy going to your house and knowing you wouldn't be there, but your mom invited me to dinner a lot."

Bucky is going to have to thank her for that. "How are they?"

"They're good," Steve says. "Really good. Bet they're happy you're back."

"I haven't seen them yet," Bucky admits. "I'm not— I'm not the same, Steve. I don't want to scare them." Saying it out loud makes it worse, somehow. "I don't think I could handle doing that to them."

Steve's gaze drifts over Bucky's face, his hair, down to Bucky's arm, his mouth a tight line. "I think they'll be happy to see you, different or not."

Before Bucky can respond to that, Emily comes back, notepad in one hand, pen in the other. "Can I get you guys anything, or do you need another minute?"

"The usual," Steve says, not looking away from Bucky.

"Same as him," Bucky says.

"Alright. I'll be back with that soon."

Under the table, Steve's foot bumps against his. Bucky would think it was an accident, only it stays there afterward, resting against his ankle. "I'll come with you, if you want," Steve offers. "To see them. When you decide to go."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

"You're not busy?" Bucky tries to smirk and remember how to do this. How to make jokes and tease and lighten the mood. He used to be good at it. "You don't have a job, Steve?"

"I  _do_  have a job, actually."

"Oh yeah?" It's almost easy to slip back into. "Let me guess, painting pictures of rich people's dogs?"

"Funny," Steve says dryly. "I work at Stark Industries."

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Didn't see that coming."

"Neither did I," Steve says in a way that makes Bucky think there's a story behind that, yet he doesn't offer it. "Good pay, though. Lot of time off."

"And your boss is Tony Stark," Bucky says. He remembers going to Tony's parties long before he was legally allowed to drink. They were wild. "You see him often?"

"I guess you could say that."

Just like in the car with Clint, there's something off about Steve now that Bucky can't lay his finger on. He tries until he gets distracted, the flat screen on the wall behind the counter catching his attention. He has to crane his neck to see it, but it's quiet enough in the diner that he can hear it clear as day.

The Avengers are on screen, blurry images of yesterday's battle in the corner behind the reporter.

"Superheroes," Bucky says with a shake of his head. "It's insane. Glad I wasn't in that part of the city yesterday."

"So am I," Steve says. "A lot of people almost got hurt."

"But they saved the day," Bucky says, turning back around. "The Avengers. What kind of name is that, anyway?"

"You don't like it?"

"It's not terrible, I guess. Better than Captain America. Who the hell came up with that one? And that outfit. Jesus Christ."

"What's wrong with the suit?"

"Have you  _seen_  that thing?" Bucky snorts. "It's ridiculous." Bucky considers for a moment, then adds, "Doesn't look half-bad on him, though, even if it is practically painted on. At least he's got the ass to fill it out."

Steve is taking a sip of his coffee when Bucky says this, and he nearly spits it out over the table. Instead he chokes, face going red, and Bucky is about to move around the table and slap him on the back when he lifts a hand and wheezes, "I'm fine."

Emily comes back before Steve's fully composed himself, leaving two heaping plates with the biggest waffles Bucky's ever seen and a container of maple syrup behind. Just the smell of it makes Bucky's stomach rumble, and it's probably the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. (He looks to Steve, and corrects himself: second most beautiful thing.)

Steve digs in right away, drenching the waffles in syrup and cutting off a big chunk. He's a disgusting eater, Steve, shoving food into his mouth like he's starving, but Bucky is more careful. He's less wild with the syrup, more precise when he cuts it, but when he takes his first bite, he closes his eyes and makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a whine.

"Good, right?"

"I haven't eaten anything this good in so long," Bucky says, looking like Steve as he stuffs his face with the rest of the waffle, telling himself to slow down, pace himself, but he can't. It's not like they didn't feed him at all, the people who took him, but it wasn't food like this. It was the bare minimal, only what he needed to live and stay in shape, nothing enjoyable. And only when they felt like feeding him. When he pissed them off, didn't follow every order, they kept meals from him.

He realizes all of this is written on his face a beat too late, and he can't cover it up before Steve notices. He puts down his fork, watching Bucky, and asks again, "Where were you, Bucky?"

Bucky tries to change the subject, to tell Steve to drop it, but Steve interrupts before he can.

"I know you," he says. "I know you wouldn't leave on your own. I know you would've found a way to tell us you were fine, if you could've, but you didn't. So the only option I can see is that someone wouldn't let you. That someone kept you from coming back. From calling home." He looks at Bucky's arm. "Same people who gave you that."

"You don't want to know, Steve," Bucky says lowly. "Let it go."

"Whatever happened, I can handle hearing it."

"No, you  _can't_ ," Bucky snaps. "I can't. Just— drop it, alright?"

He should know better than to think Steve will drop it. Steve is pigheaded and stubborn to a fault, sometimes. "I'm right, aren't I? Someone kept you from coming back."

"Does it matter?" Bucky slices the rest of the food on his plate into tiny pieces. "I'm back. It's done."

"They hurt you." Steve looks defiant, like he's daring Bucky to argue.

"No, Steve," Bucky says, unwavering. "Nobody hurt me."

Steve's eyes narrow. Bucky can tell when Steve's lying, and Steve can tell when Bucky's lying. So, before he can push for more, Bucky changes the subject. "And nobody's going to, apparently. Not now that my mom has a bodyguard following me everywhere."

Steve takes the bait. "You mean Clint?" He freezes. "I mean, that's his name, right? Clint? Is that what you said it was?"

"That's his name," Bucky confirms. "I don't need a protector, though."

Steve, for once, is quiet.

"What? You think I do?"

"I think that there's nothing wrong with having someone else looking out for you, too," Steve says carefully.

"I don't need it."

"Yeah? What about last night?"

"Last night won't happen again," Bucky says, but he's not sure if that's true. They might send more people after him. Bucky won't know until it happens.

Steve seems to be thinking the same thing. "I should stay with you," he says. "For the next couple of days. Just in case."

That offer leaves Bucky torn. On one hand, Steve being around all the time. On the other, the very real possibility of someone else coming after Bucky and Steve getting hurt because he's caught in the crossfire.

"I'll think about it," Bucky says.

"Good," Steve says. "You should—" Just like yesterday in his apartment, the Star-Spangled Banner interrupts Steve before he can finish.

"Is that your  _ringtone_?" Bucky asks, confused and amused.

Steve looks flustered all of a sudden. "A friend set it for me," he grumbles as he takes out his phone. "She thinks she's funny."

"She?"

Steve looks up, then back down at his phone. "It's your mom," he says instead of giving Bucky an explanation. "She wants to know if I'm with you." His phone erupts in song again. "And now she wants to know if we'll have dinner over there."

Bucky glances down at the mess of food left on his plate, the desire to eat anything else gone. When he glances back up, Steve is giving him an encouraging look, eyebrows raised, and Bucky is doomed the moment he sees it.

"Okay," he says. "If you want to go."

Steve plays with his phone for a minute, waits for it to sound with a new text again, and then tells him, "She wants us there by five. I'll have to swing home and shower."

"Clint can drop you off," Bucky offers. "We'll pick you back up afterwards."

Steve's eyes crinkle at the sides. "I thought he was your bodyguard, not your chauffer."

Bucky shrugs. There's not much of a difference. Clint is supposed to come everywhere with him, they take a car because it's safer than walking (or Bucky's assuming that's why) and Clint drives, so, actually, he's technically both. Bodyguard and subsequent chauffer.

"Finish eating first," Steve advises. "You don't waste waffles this good."

Bucky can't argue with that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Steve's hair is still wet from his shower when Bucky and Clint pick him up to go to dinner. The smell of whatever body wash he used fills the car, and Bucky resists the urge to crack the window and tells himself not to brush away the droplet of water that slides down Steve's neck.

He takes one look at Bucky and his lips twitch, his eyes lighting up. "What?" Bucky demands, looking down at himself. He wasn't sure what to wear, couldn't find much that didn't fit too tight, but he thinks the dress shirt and the jeans are fine. That's what he used to wear all the time.

"Your hair," Steve says, reaching out to tug on a bit of it. "You realize your mom's not going to let you leave again without cutting it, right?"

Self-consciously, Bucky runs a hand through his hair and thinks that Steve has a point. "Is it that bad?"

"Not bad, just different," Steve says quickly. His smile fades a bit. "Different isn't always a terrible thing."

They're not talking about the hair anymore, Bucky can tell that much. As if to punctuate that fact, Steve's hand lands on Bucky's leg, squeezing gently, encouragement and affection all in one easy gesture.

"Maybe," Bucky allows.

The drive home is too short. It doesn't give Bucky enough time to prepare himself, and he feels that panic from earlier rising again. By the time the car comes to a stop, he's talked himself into leaving, and then again into staying, six different times, but he hasn't said a word out loud.

The house is exactly like it is in his memory, down to the flowers withering in the garden out front, not fit to withstand the colder weather. The trees surrounding the property are nearly bare, the grounds covered in leaves. Housework was never something Bucky did if he could help it, but he always raked the leaves, even though they had a groundskeeper to do that for him. He had to get stitches in his left arm from falling on an unsuspecting rock one time when jumping into the pile.

Unlike Bucky, Steve doesn't look nervous at all. He does smooth out his shirt when he gets out of the car, but that's it. He's smiling tentatively, the car door shuts behind him loudly, and Bucky tells himself that he can handle this. That he wants to do this. That he  _needs_  to do this.

"It'll be fine," Steve assures him, confident as anything.

Bucky gives him a look. "You know, you said those exact words to me before you got us suspended that time in ninth grade. And that time in tenth grade. And that time we got kicked out of the bar because you just had to pick a fight with that one douchebag and they decided to check our fake I.D.s again."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Bucky snorts, some of the tension easing out of him. "Let's just get this over with," he says, squaring his shoulders.

Steve leads the way inside.

 

-o-

 

It's not as bad as Bucky is expecting it to be.

Oh, it's still bad. There's crying. So much fucking crying, and the horrible, snotty kind too, from everyone except Steve. There's hugging. There're wary looks. His youngest sister was five when he left, and she looks at him now like she remembers him but not really.

By the time they sit down at the table, Bucky's head is hurting from trying not to cry, too. There's a pressure behind his eyes, his face feels warm, and his tongue keeps sticking to the roof of his mouth. It's simultaneously the worst and best thing in the world.

Dinner itself is— awkward. There's no other way to put it. Steve excuses himself at some point, his way of giving them time alone, just family, but it doesn't make much of a difference because Steve is family, too. Bucky barely touches his food at all, Jocelyn and Emily fight for the spot next to him, and his mom drinks a little too much wine.

When it's over, Bucky feels a weight lifted off him. Aside from a plate of lasagna being spilled onto the floor, nothing went wrong. He didn't screw up and make them all regret being happy to have him home. The worst part was the elephant in the room, the questioning glances his parents and his oldest sister gave him when they thought he wasn't looking, like they're all happy but they're still aware of the fact that this isn't just some reunion after he went on vacation for a few months.

"Told you it'd be okay, didn't I?" Steve teases when they get back into the car to go home.

"I think that's the first time you said that and it actually worked out okay."

"That's not true," Steve argues. "There was that time that— no. We got detention for that."

Bucky rolls his eyes, too happy do anything else but lean over and rest his head on Steve's shoulder. Steve lets him.

Steve offers to stay the night again, too, if Bucky doesn't want to be alone, only Bucky sort of needs to be. He doesn't want to have to explain how taxing today was on him, going out to the restaurant, facing his entire family after everything that's happened to him, but it was. Steve accepts that, doesn't push. He _does_  make Bucky promise to call him in the morning just in case, though, and says, "Don't tell me not to worry. I think I've earned the right to worry a little," when Bucky scoffs at him.

"You might've," Bucky admits. He sits up, tugs a hand through his hair, and can feel Clint trying to act like he's not there, staring out the window so awkwardly that it's more distracting than he'd be if he was singing Shania Twain at the top of his lungs. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Steve echoes. He leans in, just a fraction, the nearest streetlamp too far away to make out the blue of his eyes. And then he jerks back abruptly, nods, and gets out of the car.

"Well that was uncomfortable," Clint says when Steve is gone.

Bucky snorts at him, face hot, and relaxes back into his seat. "Shut up," he says, and then a beat after he does he realizes that maybe he and Clint aren't at that place yet, and maybe Clint will take the words seriously.

"I'm like a soccer mom that had to drive two teenagers to prom," Clint complains instead.

"I got to third base on the way back from prom."

"Did not need to know that."

This time, he doesn't feel as dreadful as the lights of the city flicker past him. He shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable now that he doesn't have Steve to use as a human pillow. He almost manages, but then he shifts his leg against the door and something pricks into his skin.

He sucks in a sharp breath, digging a hand into his pocket, and finds the pin from earlier. He'd stashed it in there while he was getting ready, though he's not sure why. If he doesn't have it on him, it's like he's afraid it'll just… poof. Disappear. The only lead he has in finding the people that ruined his life. His only way to figure out where they are get back at them for what they've done.

Because he wants to. There's a simmering fire inside of him, one that ignited tonight when he was surrounded by every person he cares about. Those people that took him, they kept him from everyone that matters to him for  _five years_. Five fucking years of torture and pain and abuse, when he should've been here. He hadn't killed the man who broke into his apartment last night, but this time he will. He'll kill each and every one of them.

When he looks up, Clint is watching him in the rearview mirror. "What is that?" he asks.

"Nothing," Bucky says quickly, ready to hide the pin away, but maybe… "Have you ever seen this symbol before?"

Clint holds out his hand and Bucky gives him the pin, holding his breath as Clint looks it over. His expression doesn't change at all. "Never seen it before in my life," Clint declares.

Bucky lets out a sigh.

 

-o-

 

" _We would like you to begin training."_

_Bucky looks up at the door to his cell—cage, he thinks— and blinks at the blinding light haloing the man before him. He wraps his arm tighter around his legs, the other hanging limply at his side, his body not yet accustomed to the heavy weight of the metal. He doesn't answer._

" _Did you hear me?"_

_Nothing._

" _Get up."_

_Bucky doesn't._

" _I said,_ get up _."_

 _Bucky closes his eyes. The man is gone when they open again, but a few hours later he returns, the conversation repeating itself._   _And then again, a few hours after that. And again._

" _I'm sure you're hungry," the man says when he comes back the fourth time. "You'll be fed after you complete your training. Understood?" Bucky doesn't open his eyes. "Your stubbornness will get you nowhere."_

_It's not until after he's slept, curled up on his side on the cement floor, that the hunger kicks in, clawing at his stomach. His mouth is dry, too, and he can't remember the last time he brushed his teeth._

" _Are you ready to train yet?" the man asks again. Bucky glares at him and bares his teeth. "No? Well, that's a shame."_

_The next time he comes back, he doesn't speak. He places a plate of food on the floor outside Bucky's cell, different than everything else they've fed him. So far, they've given him nothing but bread and scraps of meat that tasted charred and burnt to a crisp. The plate in front of his cell now is laden with food, potatoes, carrots, pork chops, the smell of it wafting around the dingy room. Bucky's stomach growls._

_When he's sure he's alone, and the hunger won't let him stay where he is, he inches forward on his knees and tries to stick his hands through the bar far enough to reach the plate, but it's just barely out of reach. His fingers skim the glass and he can't get a hold on it. He's so hungry he feels nauseous._

_Bucky is standing when the man returns, hands gripping the bars tightly._

_"We knew you'd come to your senses," the man says, and then he unlocks the door to Bucky's cell._

Bucky wakes up with phantom pangs of hunger and a feeling of unease inside of him. He rubs at his eyes, looks at the clock on the bedside table, and realizes he only slept for two hours. He laid in bed all night, tossing and turning, and he'd still been awake when the sun was just starting to rise. The fact that he managed to sleep at all is a miracle, and he feels more exhausted than he had when he'd gotten into bed last night.

He sighs, sits up, and then realizes that the unease from when he first woke up hasn't gone away. It's like an itch under his skin, electricity in the air. It's not the noise that alerts him to someone being in his apartment, like it had the other night; it's that feeling.

This time it's different, though. No one kicks down his bedroom door. No one moves outside his room. He thinks that maybe his instincts are off, but when he makes his way out into the living room he finds someone sitting on his couch. Someone smaller than the last person who broke in here, though yet again dressed from head-to-toe in black, hair and face hidden underneath a mask.

Only Bucky recognizes her. If he hadn't spent hours on the internet reading up about the Avengers, he might not, but he had and the name pops into his head as soon as he lays eyes on her: Black Widow.

"Morning," she greets as she gets to her feet in one smooth, graceful movement, so casual you'd think they're longtime friends and not strangers.

Bucky keeps his distance. Superhero or not, she broke into his apartment. And, yeah, okay, Bucky also has trust issues.

"What, you're not going to say hello? I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman."

At this point, not many things can faze him. He's calmer than he should be, considering someone's broken into his apartment  _again_  and apparently wants to have a conversation with him this time. Then again, it would probably take a lot more than something like this to genuinely rattle him after everything else.

"Not when people break into my apartment," he says steadily.

He thinks she's grinning underneath her mask. "Fair enough," she says, and then she holds up something between her fingers. "Mind telling me what you were doing with this?"

Bucky zeroes in on the pin. "Where did you get that?" he demands. It should be in the pocket of his jeans lying on the floor beside his bed. If she has it, that means she was in his room while he was asleep and he hadn't even noticed.

"I asked you first."

"I found it," Bucky says shortly.

"Found it where?"

He considers lying, but what's the point? "Here. Someone broke in. They dropped it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Do  _you_?"

She fiddles with the pin, looking down at it, and then slips it into a pocket that Bucky can't, for the life of him, locate on her skin-tight outfit. "I'll tell you what I know if you answer a question for me," she bargains when it's out of sight.

Bucky feels like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. She has him cornered and he can tell that she knows it. "Fine," he grits out.

"Did you escape or did they let you go?"

Bucky stares at her, teeth clenched together. His hands curl into fists. He says, "They let me go."

She nods. That's the answer she expected. "Were they trying to get information out of you?"

"No," Bucky says. They never bothered. What the hell could they get out of him? He was a stupid, spoiled kid when they found him.

"So they didn't want information," she says slowly, "and they taught you to fight." Before he can ask how she knows that, she keeps talking. "They're planning something. I don't know what yet, but we're going to figure it out."

"You say 'they' like you know who they are."

"Hydra," she says. "The symbol on that pin is their logo. I'd tell you more but we haven't found much else. Every once in a while a body will turn up with that symbol on it, or we'll find abandoned buildings with it painted on the walls. Two years ago the owner of Holt Enterprise was murdered in his bed, and they found a pin just like the one you had in his dresser. The police never found who did it. As far as secret organizations go, they live up to the name."

"Where do I find them?" Bucky asks.

"You don't." She takes a step forward and Bucky tilts his chin, staying his ground. "You leave it to the professionals," she says. "You don't want to get any more involved in this than you already are, trust me."

Only he does.

"You  _don't_ ," she repeats more forcefully. "We'll handle it." She pauses, tilting her head to the side. "But don't leave the building without Clint."

"How do you know Clint?" he asks, but it's a stupid question. Apparently she knows everything, why should Clint be any different?

He gets the feeling that she's smiling at him again as she walks past him, heading for the door. "I mean it. If you leave, take him with you."

"I don't need someone to protect me."

"Who says he's only there for your protection?"

Of all the things she's said, this one throws him the most. "What else is he there for?"

"To keep an eye on you," she says over her shoulder.

The sound of the door shutting behind her echoes long after she's gone. Bucky stays where he is, staring at the door.

 

-o-

 

Bucky is on his computer, scouring the internet for everything he can find on Hydra, when his mother calls. He thinks about ignoring it, continuing his search, but he's not getting anywhere. There's not a god damn thing online about Hydra at all, aside from the countless pages on a serpent from Greek mythology. He needs something, anything, to point him in the right direction so he can hunt them down, Black Widow's suggestion (order, whatever) to leave it to her and her team to handle instead be damned, but there's  _nothing_.

"Hello?" he answers, sounding as irritated as he feels. He leaves his laptop on the couch in favor of pacing, getting out a bit of the restless energy inside of him, and considers going down to the gym on the ground floor of the building.

"Sweetie," his mother says brightly. "How are you feeling?"

Bucky doesn't roll his eyes. Like Steve said, they've all earned the right to worry about him. "I'm good, mom," he says, hoping he sounds it.

"That's wonderful, dear. I'm glad to hear it." It sounds like she's on her computer, too. "Did you call any of those numbers I gave you for the adjustment counsellors?"

Bucky groans internally and wonders why she can't just call it what it is. A therapist. She thinks he needs a therapist, and she's probably not wrong, but Bucky can't— he doesn't want to talk to someone he doesn't know. He has enough trouble talking with the people he  _does_  know. He can imagine how it would go, how they'd try to get him to open up, and maybe it would work. Maybe they would find a way to make Bucky open up and get everything out of him, but he doubts he'd be able to pull himself together again afterwards. Right now he may be cracked and damaged, but he's still held together. Somewhat.

"I called a few of them," Bucky lies. "Haven't found one I'd like to talk to yet."

"Oh, well, if you'd like me to book you an appointment with someone…"

"No, it's fine."

"Alright." He can hear her take a calming breath before she gets to the point of this call, which was, apparently, not to nag him. "I was calling to ask you about something."

"Okay," Bucky says slowly.

"How do you feel about having a little 'welcome home' get together?" She doesn't give him a chance to respond before she barrels on. "You used to love parties, if I recall, and I think it's the best thing to do, given the circumstances. Our family's lives have always been very public, James, and with your father running for mayor next year—"

"He's— What?"

"Did we not tell you? I meant to. I must've been distracted— though, who can blame me?" She laughs and Bucky realizes that this isn't his mom, the crying woman who can't believe she's seeing her son alive after years of thinking he was dead. This is his mother, the business woman, socialite and media darling. "But in light of that, and your return, the public has had questions. They're not going to rest until they get answers, and I think the best thing we can do, as a family, is show them that things are going back to normal. You're home, we're all very happy, and we've put those five years behind us so they should as well."

Put it behind them? Is that what they've done? He must not have gotten the memo. "And you think the best way to do that is by throwing a party."

"Not just for them, dear, for you," she emphasizes. "Won't it be nice to go back to the way things were?"

Bucky closes his eyes, stops his pacing. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

"I'm so glad you agree. How does Saturday night sound? I've already made up the guest list and that will give me time to get a caterer and music. Black-tie, of course. Do any of your suits fit you, or should we go and have you refitted? And I'll have to talk to Steve about designing the invitations as well. God knows he has more talent than half the professionals in this city combined."

She wants a project. He can tell. Idle hands, as they say, are the devil's playthings, and she's always done things like this whenever she's upset. Throws herself into her work, or a function, so she can forget whatever's plaguing her.

And who is Bucky to deny her this? It's not like he's the only one going through a lot of shit right now. It's not like he's the only one who's being affected by what's happened. It's destroyed her just as much as it has him, and if she thinks this will help, well. Bucky will do it, then.

"I'll talk to him," Bucky offers.

"Would you?"

"I'll call him right now," Bucky says, seeing his way out of this conversation.

"Oh." She sounds a little hurt, but she covers it quickly. "That's for the best. I have a caterer to book. Do see about the suit, please. I want you to look your best. And should I book you an appointment with the hairdresser?"

Bucky pushes back the bit of hair falling into his face. "No," he says. He doesn't know why.

"Alright, well, I'll call you if I need anything else. You call me if you change your mind. Have a good day, James."

"You too, mom."

She says a quick 'I love you' and then hangs up. Bucky doesn't waste a second before he calls Steve on the number he wrote down after breakfast at the diner, knowing that if he doesn't do it now he'll lose his nerve, change his mind, call his mother back and tell her he's not ready for something like this yet.

Steve sounds happy to hear from him when he picks up. Instead of asking Bucky if he's okay— a question that's going to make him lose the last of his sanity, if he has to say it again— he greets Bucky with a warm, "Hey! What's up?"

"Nothing," Bucky says as he sinks into his recliner. "What're you— what are you up to?"

"I'm at work, actually."

Bucky grimaces. He hadn't even considered that, unlike him, Steve has a life and is probably busy. "Sorry, I can call back."

"What? No, no, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm on break."

"Okay." Bucky picks at a tear in the leather from that time he'd fallen asleep in this chair with a cigarette in one hand. Alcohol had been involved. He was lucky he didn't burn the whole apartment down. "I was calling to ask if you—"

In the background, Bucky hears a loud smack and then a groan, like someone hitting something hard.

"What was that?"

"What?" Steve sounds distracted. "Nothing. The TV. I'm in the break room. One second." A door opens, closes, but before it does Bucky hears someone call, "Where're you going, cap? You and I are up next."

"Loud TV," Bucky comments.

"Oh, yeah. It's, uh, this guy I work with. He's got bad hearing. Did you call for a reason?" he asks, changing the subject so quickly Bucky would be suspicious if it were anyone but Steve. "Or did you miss me too much already?"

Before, Bucky would've said something like  _you wish_  or  _not hardly_. Now, all he says is: "Maybe. Are you busy after work? Do you, uh. You wanna come over, get some food or something?"

"I can be there in half an hour. You want Chinese? There's a great place on the way."

"You can leave, just like that?"

"I'm sure it won't be a problem."

Bucky grins. "Chinese sounds great, then. Can you—?"

"I'll get you an extra egg roll."

His grin widens. "You remember that, huh?"

"How could I forget? You ate nine of them by yourself on your seventeenth birthday, remember? We snuck that vodka from your parents and you said they should've just stuck your candles in the eggs rolls instead of a cake."

"Why did you let me do that?" Bucky wonders. "I threw up. Twice."

"You said that was the vodka, not the egg rolls. And then claimed that egg rolls were your best friend, and they'd never do you wrong."

"I meant it. You're great and all, Steve, but you're not deep fried."

Steve laughs. Bucky missed that sound so much. "I'll be there in half an hour," Steve tells him. "Just gotta finish up a few things here."

"Okay," Bucky says. "I'll see you soon."

"See you soon."

Bucky eyes his computer after they hang up, the phone on the coffee table where he left it, forgotten. He wants to spend more time looking, trying to find out whatever he can about Hydra, but he knows it's a dead end. It's going to keep nagging at him whether he spends another hour trying to find something or not, and besides: he needs a shower.

He leaves the laptop behind, shutting it on his way to the bathroom so he won't be tempted, but Hydra is on his mind the whole time he's under the warm spray of water. They're still on his mind when he gets out and towels off, changing into sweats and a t-shirt. Up until the moment Steve knocks on the door, he's still thinking about the man who broke into his apartment, why they would send someone after him, why they would let him go, why they took him in the first place. So many questions and not a single answer available.

He's glad when he opens the door and Steve walks in, a smile on his face and a greasy bag of food in his arms.

 

-o-

 

"A party," Steve repeats, sounding as if he likes the idea about as much as Bucky does. He puts down the carton of food he's eating, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and Bucky stays quiet because it looks like he's writing out an essay in his mind, erasing and rewording what he wants to say until it's just right. "And that's something you want?" he finally asks.

Bucky pushes around the last of his food. "I don't know," he admits. He's not sure if it's something he can handle, but—"If it makes my parents happy, I can deal. She's trying to get things back to the way they were, and maybe she has the right idea. Maybe that's what we should all do. But you better be coming too."

"You know, I think I might be busy that night. Maybe next time."

Bucky shoves at his shoulder, not amused. "Don't leave me to the wolves, Steve, come on."

"Like I'd miss a Barnes family party," Steve says with a grin. "You've only been back for two weeks and your mom's already stuffing you in a suit. She works fast."

"Stuffing you in a suit, too," Bucky reminds him. "She'd never let you get away with not coming. She knows where you live, and you know how scary she gets."

"I think I could take her, if I have to."

"My mom would kick your ass and you know it."

Steve laughs. "I don't think I ever want to find out." His laughter dies out, his expression turning serious. "How many people are coming?"

"Dunno. She didn't say."

Steve nods, eyes glazed over a bit, his thoughts far away from the here and now. And then, the last thing Bucky is expecting, he asks, "Can I bring someone?"

There's a swooping in Bucky's stomach, like his heart just plummeted into his gut. He blinks rapidly, trying not to look surprised, but— but Steve has never taken a date to anything of these things. They've gone to too many parties together to count, Bucky always dragging Steve along with him, and even when Bucky himself had a date, even when he was seeing someone, Steve came with him. Alone.

Bucky has no right to feel jealous. There's no reason Steve shouldn't want to take a date. Hell, look at him. Bucky bets people throw themselves at him left and right, and doesn't blame them in the slightest bit because he would too, if there wasn't so much riding on it, if it wasn't such a risk. Really, Bucky shouldn't be surprised at all.

It's not like he can say no, though he wants to (he really, really fucking wants to) so instead he forces a smile. "Of course," is what he says. "Yeah, definitely. Got anyone in mind?"

"I might," Steve says absently.

"They anyone I know?"

Steve's lips twitch. "I don't think you two have been formally introduced."

He elbows Steve in the ribs and pretends his heart isn't aching. "They hot?"

That question seems to throw Steve. That distant look in his eyes dissolves, and his mouth falls open. " _What_? I— I mean, she's— she's very, uh. Yes. Yeah. You could say that, I guess."

"So you got game while I was gone, huh? Good for you, Steve. About damn time."

Steve laughs hollowly and changes the subject. "Are you gonna eat the rest of that?"

Bucky raises his eyebrows. Steve brought more food than they usually get, almost double the amount, and he's eaten most of it. Bucky's stomach isn't used to so much rich food, or so much food in general, and he's been slowly picking his way through what he has, but Steve has blown through it all. And he's eying Bucky's lo mein like he hasn't eaten in days.

"How are you still hungry?" he asks as he hands it over.

"Skipped breakfast," Steve says dismissively. "And I worked out today."

"Lifting an entire bus?" Bucky asks, eying the way Steve's shirt strains against his arm muscles. It's  _so tight_ , Jesus Christ.

"I did that last week. Stuck to running today with Sam. Didn't want to strain myself."

"Sam," Bucky repeats.

"You met him. He was at my place that first morning, remember?"

"Right," Bucky says. He remembers. "So you two meet at work or something?"

"Running, actually. We jog the same route."

Bucky nods stiffly. "Cool."

"Are you  _jealous_?"

"I'm not jealous."

"I'm not replacing you," Steve promises.

"Like you could," Bucky scoffs, sounding every bit as cocky as every tabloid used to make him out to be. "I'm irreplaceable, baby."

Steve flicks a piece of chicken at Bucky and Bucky catches it midair in his mouth, his reflexes too good to miss it. Steve looks impressed. "Nice."

"I'm glad you've— I'm glad you have other friends," Bucky says after he's chewed and swallowed. "I'm glad you weren't alone all this time."

"What about you? Were you alone all this time?"

Bucky shuts down. "Steve," he warns.

"I'm sorry," Steve groans, dropping his fork into the empty container in his hand. "I'm not trying to push, but if it's something you can't tell even  _me_ , that scares me, Buck. You said no one hurt you but I'm having a hard time believing that."

"Telling you won't change things. You can't go back and fix it," Bucky says, low and quiet and pleading that Steve will let it go. "It's better to just leave what happened in the past. Forget about it."

"Five years is a lot of time to forget."

"It's a longer time to miss," Bucky counters, "so why don't we worry about making up for it instead of dwelling on what happened?" He forces a smile, wanting the easy banter back. "Come on. Tell me about art school. You got a full scholarship, right? What was the college experience like?"

Steve lets out a huff and leaves his empty food carton on the coffee table with the rest. "Like high school," he says, "with longer classes, slightly less cliques and a lot less sleep."

"And you definitely gained the freshman fifteen," Bucky says, eying Steve's perfectly trimmed waist in his tight shirt. "You really let yourself go while I was gone."

"Five years and you're still a jerk," Steve chuckles. "Nice to know that's never going to change."

Bucky tosses a fortune cookie at Steve's head for that and tries not to think about all the things that  _have_  changed.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

The days leading up to the party are busy. He's been officially declared dead (in absentia, he's told the term is) and his father shows up without calling first, briefcase in hand, and explains to him the process of getting his death certificate rescinded. There are visits to a courthouse. Bucky still isn't sure how he manages to keep himself together through them, but having his father there helps. It's easier to keep a brave face when the alternative means scaring his parents.

He really does call a few of the numbers his mom gave him for therapy but he doesn't book an appointment with any of them. At least this way, if his mom asks again, he won't be lying. He just— he really doesn't see what they can do for him, so what's the point? It'd be a waste of everyone's time and money.

There's also the suit fitting, which is as uncomfortable as he's expecting it to be. A stranger getting too close to him, getting right into his personal space, touching him. It doesn't sit well with Bucky anymore. There're a select few people who Bucky relaxes his guard around, but the rest of the world isn't included in that and he doubts they ever will be again.

Every room he steps into, he can't help but look for every possible exit, assess every possible danger, find any possible weapon he could use in case of an attack. He's been conditioned to regard everything as a potential threat first, and to relax second.

Reporters flock to them when they're suit shopping, waiting outside the door for them to leave. That's the worst part. Bucky's jaw is clenched the whole time and, despite the amount of security his mother insisted on bringing with them, Bucky's heart is still hammering and his hands are still shaking with adrenaline when they get into the car. Clint has the day off and Bucky finds himself wishing he were there.

At home, on the days Steve is busy with work, he exercises or spends his time on the computer, almost obsessively searching for Hydra, convinced that he can find something if he just keeps looking. He only uses the gym when he's sure no one else will be there, doesn't want anyone to watch him as he lifts weights that are heavier than he should be capable of lifting, runs for longer than he should be able to without getting winded.

By the time the day of the party rolls around, Bucky is honestly happy for it. The party has been hanging over his head since his mother brought it up to him, a weight of anxiety and stress that he's glad is finally going to disappear. Even if it means going through one night of horror to do it.

At least, when seven o'clock rolls around and he pulls on his suit and heads downstairs to be picked up, he's not the only one who looks like they'd rather be doing anything tonight but going to the party.

"I'm so fired," Clint says as Bucky slides into the backseat. Steve is already inside. "We're gonna be so late and your mom's gonna kill me. And there's a hole in my suit."

Bucky leans forward, looking him over. Clint's shaved— and nicked himself more than once— and his hair looks like he attempted to style it. He's handsome, Bucky thinks distantly, but it's obvious he doesn't like being in the suit at all. The hole, on the other hand, isn't really a problem. "I wouldn't even notice it if you hadn't mentioned it," Bucky promises.

Clint meets his gaze in the rearview mirror. "The fanciest thing I own is one of those Tassimo coffee machines, and I don't even know how to use that."

"You don't have to come in if you don't want to."

Clint looks skeptical. "Yeah, I do. Bodyguard, remember? Room full of, like, a hundred people? I gotta be there."

"I don't think anyone's going to attack me at a  _party_."

"You'd be surprised."

Bucky looks back at the hole in Clint's suit and realizes that a gun may have been involved in that, now that he gives it a closer look. He doesn't ask.

He  _does_  lean back in his seat and finally allows himself to look Steve over. It's weird to see him in a suit that actually fits, since his last one had been slightly too big and hung off his shoulders. This one fits perfectly, and he looks amazing, but Bucky thought he looked just as good in the oversized suit. Bucky thinks Steve looks good all the damn time. It's an ongoing problem.

But there's something missing. "Where's your date?" he asks, looking around like he's expecting her to be, like, hiding under the fucking seat or something.

"She's meeting us there," Steve says. "I didn't think there'd be enough room in here for the three of us and someone else."

"Oh." Bucky was hoping to meet her beforehand so he could get it over with.

"You look great, though," Steve says, giving Bucky a slow, thorough once-over. "Even with the hair."

"Make fun of my hair all you want. At least I know how to tie a tie," Bucky mocks, looking at the fumbled job Steve's done on his own. "Come here."

Steve leans forward and Bucky reaches for the tie, undoing it and reknotting it with quick efficiency. His knuckles keep brushing Steve's throat. He doesn't think Steve breathes at all the whole time, not until Bucky finishes and smoothes a hand over the length of the tie, feeling the muscles of Steve's chest under his hand, strong and firm.

Clint coughs. Steve's sucks in a ragged breath. Bucky draws back.

"Ready to go?" Clint asks.

"Yeah," Bucky says. "We're ready."

At least, Bucky thinks as they drive, he's not the only one internally freaking out. Clint's shoulders are tensed the whole way there, though Steve looks calm and composed. Bucky wants to poke him, just to see if he'll crack, so he does. And Steve yelps, jumps, and Bucky laughs so hard he nearly chokes on nothing but air because, thank god, Steve is still just as ticklish and jumpy as always.

"Keep flirting like I'm not here," Clint mutters. Bucky digs his knee into the back of Clint's seat.

The scene when they pull up to the house is very different from last time. The house is illuminated by the outside lights, looking even grander than it actually is, which is pretty impressive. There're cars lined up on one side, people being dropped off by drivers and limos out front, and two doormen letting guests in standing guard at the double-doors of the front entrance.

"Jeez," Clint says as he leans forward to get a better look. "Where am I supposed to park? Or do I drop you two off out front and then figure it out?"

"Go around the side," Bucky says. "I'm not going in the front."

Steve waits until they're parked and getting out of the car, Clint busy fixing his cuffs, to ask, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Can't back out now," Bucky reminds him.

"Sure you can. If you don't want this, we can leave. Your mom will understand."

She'll understand, sure, but she'll be disappointed. And, in case Steve is forgetting, this party is being thrown in Bucky's honor. He can't  _not_  go. It'll just make people more curious if he bails, and like his mother said: it's best to show them that they're moving on, and everyone else should too. Bucky can handle this.

Probably.

They enter through the kitchen because Bucky doesn't want to make a huge entrance, and Steve snags an appetizer on their way. Bucky grabs a flute of champagne. If Steve disapproves of this, he doesn't say so.

"Here we go," Steve says when they get to the door of the ballroom. "Last chance to say no."

Bucky downs his drink, wipes his mouth, leaves the glass on the table and smiles. "Let's do this."

He should've known better than to think he could walk into this quietly. The moment they step into the ballroom, it's like a wave goes through the crowd. The room itself is so big and so filled with people that it takes a bit of time, but slowly everyone turns to look at him. First those closest, their eyes getting wide. Then people start to notice the hush that has come over them and they turn to see what all the fuss is about, to see which divorced couple brought younger dates, or who's arriving alone or in a knock-off dress.

Bucky is so not fucking ready for this. The only exit he can swiftly get to is the one they just stepped through. The door on the other side of the room is too far away, too many people in between, and someone would wind up injured if he broke through the huge windows taking up one side of the room. Everyone isn't packed in like sardines, but it's a close enough thing. He can't handle all the eyes on him. There's no way he'll be able to listen and gauge whether or not someone is coming up behind him with so many people's voices filling the room.

And then he feels the warm pressure of a hand on his back, looks over to find Steve smiling encouragingly, and he relaxes the slightest bit.

"The man of the hour," he hears his father say from somewhere on the other side of the crowd, and then the clapping starts, slowly at first and then growing, louder and louder.

Bucky puts his hand on Steve's back, too, fisting his fingers in Steve's jacket. "Don't leave me yet," he begs through his teeth so no one can tell what he's saying.

"Not going anywhere," Steve promises.

He keeps that promise. Bucky has always been grateful for him, but now more than ever. There're toast, his parents giving a vague speech about Bucky being away and being so happy he's back, and more clapping, and then Bucky's expected to say something, too, so he smiles so tightly he thinks his face is going to crack and says that he's happy to  _be_  back, and that seems to be good enough for everyone else.

It's all about what's on the surface, as always. As long as Bucky keeps smiling, everyone will take it. They don't care enough to look beneath that.

Finally the party begins again, everyone going back to talking amongst themselves, getting drinks and food, judging each other with smiles just as fake as Bucky's plastered on their faces. He doesn't resent them for it; when everyone cares too much about your life, the only thing you can do is pretend that it's perfect until they look away again. How's that any different from what he's doing?

"Fucking Christ," Bucky mutters, releasing Steve's coat at last. "I need another drink. Think they got vodka somewhere in here?"

"I think I spotted some bottles of water on my way over here," Steve says. "Why don't I get you one?"

"Sounds great. Pour some vodka into it."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I'll be back."

Bucky is not getting his vodka, he can totally tell.

Without Steve beside him, Bucky flounders, looking around for a familiar face. He can't spot Clint in the crowd, or any of his sisters. A few people he vaguely recognizes from before, some that have changed over the years almost as much as Bucky and others that are unnaturally the same. Dresses of every colour blur together with the black of suits to break it up every once in a while. There's food on the other side of the room but Bucky doesn't think he can work his way through the crowd to get to it, so he stays where he is.

"James," his father says, coming up on his right. "Moira and John have been dying to see you since you've gotten back."

Bucky doesn't remember who they are, even when he looks at them standing behind his father, but he pretends he does. "Good to see you again," he says, accepting John's handshake and trying not to stiffen when Moira goes in for a hug.

Once he starts the rounds, he has to finish them. Everyone in the entire god damn room wants to wish him well and tell him how much they missed him, though he's pretty sure at least a quarter of them have never spoken to him in his life. A few ask about his father's choice to run for mayor next year, and how he feels to be going up against a good friend of his, and Bucky reverts back to his old ways, standing by his father's side and not listening to a word they say while looking around for Steve so he can rescue Bucky from this entirely different brand of hell than the one he'd live in for the last five years.

"It's just a bit of friendly competition," he barely hears his father say. "Alexander and I are still good friends. I don't think this is going to change that. And, you know what? He'd be a great man for the job. Whoever loses, I think that this city, as a whole, is going to win either way." Bucky snorts. No one notices. "In fact, I invited him here tonight. I don't think I've properly welcomed him yet. Excuse me."

It's impressive, the way Bucky's father makes a dismissal sound so much like anything but. Bucky watches him go and realizes that the Alexander he was talking about is Alexander Pierce. Bucky's father shakes Pierce's hand, and Bucky stands there frozen to the spot, heart racing, hairs on the back of his neck standing up, though he can't figure out why.

Pierce turns, meeting Bucky's eyes from across the room with a smile on his face; a shudder runs through Bucky's body. When it looks like Pierce is going to excuse himself and come say hello, Bucky's instincts kick in and he suddenly unfreezes and bolts, not look back once, confused by his own actions but not doubting that feeling in his gut that says  _move_  one bit.

His heart is still pounding when he finally spots Steve, close to the door, talking to someone that Bucky can't see because Steve's body effectively blocks them. Running away from Pierce pushed him right into the crowd, and Bucky's panic rises as he tries to get closer to Steve, feeling like a fish trying to swim upstream as he says, "Excuse me, sorry, excuse me," over and over with varying levels of hysterics.

When he blessedly gets through the crowd, he can hear Steve talking. "—glad that you came. I feel better with as many of us here as possible, just in case."

"I agree," someone— female— responds. "Right now, at least, we need to be taking every precaution we can."

Bucky frowns. He's missing an integral part of the conversation and he wants to know what it is, but he doesn't want Steve to turn around and think he's eavesdropping. He walks right up to the two of them, smiling broadly as if all of his alarms aren't still going off and his skin doesn't feel clammy, and touches Steve's shoulder in warning before he says, "Hey. You disappeared on me."

Steve doesn't look surprised to see him, though he does look happy. "I was about to come find you," Steve says, his hand resting on the small of Bucky's back again. "Bucky, this is Natasha. Natasha, this is Bucky."

Bucky finally lays eyes on Steve's date, and while he hadn't actually wondered if tonight could get any worse, it just has.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks.  _God damn it,_  he thinks.  _You've got to be fucking kidding me_ , he thinks.

She's the most beautiful girl he's ever met in his life, and that's saying something. He's been to Victoria's Secret fashion shows, and she's somehow prettier than any model or actress he's ever met. She's wearing a silver dress that makes her skin look like marble and her red hair look like flame. Bucky knows he's attractive, doesn't really have moments of self-doubt when it comes to his looks, but he can't compete with this. No one can.

"Nice to meet you," Natasha says, holding out her hand.

"You too," Bucky says. He brings her hand up to his lips and she smirks at him, her mouth done up in a neutral colour to make her eyes—wide, glittering— the main focus. "Steve's told me a lot about you."

Steve gives him a weird look, probably because he actually hasn't told Bucky  _anything_  about her, but she doesn't notice. "Not as much as he's told me about you," she says as she takes her hand back.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Only the good stuff, right?"

"For the most part."

"I haven't said that much," Steve denies. His ears are red.

"Sure you haven't." Natasha pats Steve's arm and Bucky gets the feeling that she's teasing him. "He likes your hair, by the way."

"Okay," Steve loudly interrupts. "Why don't we go get that drink now?"

Bucky loves seeing Steve flustered. "I think I want to talk to your date more."

"She's busy," Steve says firmly. "Right, Nat? You said you wanted to talk to Tony and Pepper."

Natasha's smirk gets bigger. "Trying to get rid of me already? I was promised a night of dancing and champagne, remember?"

"Why don't you two dance," Bucky suggests, "and I'll get the champagne and find you in a bit?"

"What?" Steve shakes his head. "No, I told you I'd stay with you tonight, it's—"

" _Go_ ," Bucky says, practically shoving Steve away from him and into Natasha's arms. "I have people to talk to anyway. And I gotta make sure Clint isn't dying somewhere. You dance. I'll see you in a few minutes."

"You heard the man," Natasha says. She loops her arm with Steve's. "Let's dance."

"You can't deny a beautiful woman a dance, Steve, come on." Bucky actually does shove him this time, though gently. "I'll see you in a song or two."

Steve looks like he wants to argue, which makes zero sense, but he doesn't actually do it. He sighs and lets Natasha lead him away, but Bucky stills catches his exasperated, "I know what you're trying to do."

"Do you," Natasha replies.

"The jealousy thing never works out," is the last thing he hears before the slow music the band on the other side of the room is playing drowns them out.

Bucky tries to figure out what that means. Is she jealous? Is that what Steve is saying? Jealous of  _him_?

It makes a little bit of sense, Bucky will admit. He's had girlfriends get upset over Steve before, complain that he spends too much time with Steve instead of them, or that Steve is always tagging along with him, as if Bucky isn't the one inviting Steve to do so. But she's got nothing to worry about, and Bucky would tell her as much if he had the chance. Steve doesn't look at him like that, probably never will, and besides: who the hell is going to trade in a girl that like for  _anyone_ , let alone someone as fucked up as Bucky is?

Bucky watches them dance for a moment, trying not to hate it, but they look good together. And she seems nice. Bucky always knew it was only a matter of time before someone else realized how great Steve was and wanted him too, and Steve could do a hell of a lot worse. He's happy for Steve. For them. Really.

He goes and finds the drink table before his smile cracks.

He finds Clint there, trying to get a stain out of his tie and subsequently pouring champagne on himself without even realizing. Bucky snorts a laugh, comes up behind him, and says, "Just take the damn thing off. No one will notice."

Clint jolts a little, nearly spilling more of his champagne. "Where's Steve?" he asks, leaving the drink on the table. Bucky grabs a new one and downs it in one go.

"Dancing," Bucky replies. "With his date."

"What?" Clint scans the crowd. "Huh," he says when he's spotted them. "Didn't know he could dance."

"Me either," Bucky says. Steve used to be the worst dancer in the world and now he looks— "Listen, I gotta talk to people but I told them I'd grab them a drink. You mind bringing them something in a minute?"

"Sure, man," Clint says, busy watching Steve and Natasha dance. Bucky thinks he sees Clint eying Natasha but he tells himself he doesn't because he likes Clint a lot so far, but if he's moving in on Steve's date Bucky will probably punch him.

"Thanks."

Bucky only looks back once on his way to the door, not wanting anyone to think he looks conspicuous, but he can't see Steve and Natasha through the crowd, or his parents, so he keeps going and prays no one stops him.

He manages to swipe a bottle of wine on his way through the kitchen. None of the staff bother to try and stop him, too caught up in their work and trying not to get fired for a single mistake, not that his mother would do that. But some people would, so he understands their worry. At these kinds of events, tension runs high; if you screw up once, it could mean the end of a job, permanently.

His shoulders relax more with each step he takes away from the ballroom. He waits until he's upstairs to take a swig of the wine, and the he traces the steps he knows by heart to his old room and shuts the door behind himself.

It doesn't look like it's been touched at all. It's creepily preserved, like an exhibit in a museum: The early life of James Buchanan Barnes. Someone should really give a tour.

"And over here," Bucky mutters to himself as he takes another gulp of the wine, "is where I threw up when I was eight and figured out I was allergic to mushrooms." He throws open the closet doors. "And this is where I hid when I didn't want to go to school." Steps into the ensuite bathroom. "This is where I spent eight hours after trying tequila for the first time."

He laughs to himself, a little too drunk already, and makes his way to the window, throwing it open. The cool air washes over him as he leans out it, elbows balanced on the sill, and keep drinking. It's dark out, the sky clear and the stars bright. They're far enough from the city that it's quiet, too, and he closes his eyes, lets the calm of it soothe him.

He doesn't want to go back downstairs. The combination of everything— his family, the people and the noise and the music, the pressure to put on a smile— is just too much for him to handle, and he's done his part. He showed his face. He mingled. He made an effort. At least he tried and no one can blame him for leaving, right?

The bottle is starting to get lighter, or he gets drunk enough that he no longer notices the weight of it in his hand, when his bedroom door opens. He figures it's someone, one of  _them,_  coming to find him, but it might not be. He doesn't care if it is. He's drunk, but he can still fight. He'd like to see someone try him right now. He can feel his body shifting, getting ready to defend himself if he has to.

"Why don't we  _not_  hang out the window while we're drunk, huh?"

Bucky relaxes and Steve pulls him away from the window with a hand on Bucky's chest, dragging him back. He shuts it afterwards, cutting off Bucky's connection to fresh air, and all he can focus on is how good Steve smells. He's wearing some kind of cologne, woodsy and faint. It smells like what Bucky would assume a lumberjack smells like, and it's turning him on more than it should.

"What are— how did you know I left?" Bucky demands, bottle swaying in his hands. Or he's swaying. One or the other.

"Clint told me."

Bucky's eyes narrow. "Clint's getting fired." He doesn't mean it, but... Damn it. Of course Clint noticed him leaving. "You should be downstairs, enjoying the party. I would've come to get you if I needed you up here."

"Liar."

Steve's got him there. Bucky won't deny it. He sighs, sinks onto the edge of his bed, and searches for any of the telltale signs that Steve's been doing more than dancing in his absence. His hair isn't mused, though, and his tie is in place. There're no marks on his neck, and his lips aren't any redder than they normally are.

"What about your date?" Bucky wonders.

"She's downstairs," Steve answers. He sits next to Bucky on the bed. "Figured you left to be alone. Bringing someone else up here would defeat the purpose."

Bucky snorts. "Only you would leave a girl like that behind to look after his drunken idiot of a friend. What the hell is wrong with you? That's not the kind of girl you abandon, Steve. That's the kind of girl you take home before someone else beats you to it."

Steve's eyes narrow. "I love you," he says, "but don't you dare talk about her like that's all she's good for. Natasha is one of the greatest people I've ever met, and I didn't bring her here because I wanted her to sleep with me, or because she's attractive."

Bucky looks down, ashamed. "I'm sorry," he says, not because Steve is mad at him but because Steve is right.

"I know." Steve wraps his hand around the wine bottle, overlapping Bucky's fingers. "How about we stick to water for the rest of the night?"

"Good idea." Bucky lets Steve take the bottle, doesn't miss it at all once it's gone. "I must be a damn mess if you're the one making responsible decisions."

Steve cracks a smile. "You're not a mess. You've been through a lot— even if you won't tell me what— and I know you didn't want to do this tonight."

"You've been through a lot too," Bucky reminds him. "You're not falling apart."

"Already did that," Steve says easily, leaning back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head. "Trust me, Buck, I'm not as together as you think, and I had time to get through it. You've been back two weeks. You don't just get over things in a heartbeat, even when you want to."

Bucky is nowhere near as graceful as Steve when he flops down onto the bed, legs still hanging off the edges, feet planted on the ground. "I should've been here for you," he mutters, anger making his word sharp. "I should've."

"You don't think I feel the same way?"

That thought terrifies Bucky. He'd begged Steve to get on that plane with him, and he knows for certain that Steve would've died in the crash if he'd agreed. And even if he didn't, Bucky would never, in a million years, wish that Steve had been with him the last few years. He's never been so glad that Steve's stubborn and headstrong enough to ignore Bucky even when he begged Steve to come with him.

He turns his head on the bed, looking up at Steve, but Steve's not meeting his eyes. He's looking at Bucky's arm, nothing in his expression to say what he's thinking. Does it freak him out? Does is terrify him like it does Bucky's mom?

Curiously, Steve sits up and drags his fingers over the back of Bucky's hand, up as far as he can get under Bucky's sleeve, feeling the plates of metal, the smooth finish. Bucky can't feel it at all. He can feel the weight of things he holds, can tell if something is hard or if it'll wield under his touch, but someone could shoot him in the crook of his elbow and it wouldn't even sting.

"Lost it in the crash," Bucky explains before Steve can ask. "They replaced it."

"They," Steve repeats, still feeling up Bucky's arm. He doesn't  _look_  disgusted, but his poker face is too good for Bucky to really know.

"Yeah," Bucky says tiredly, his eyelids feeling heavy. Exhaustion or the alcohol is making him drowsy. "I think— I think it was on purpose. The crash. I don't think it was an accident."

Steve sucks in, surprised, but Bucky can't open his eyes to look at him. He feels the bed lift, Steve's weight gone, and wonders if Steve is leaving him until his foot suddenly gets cold. He manages to crack open an eye enough to see Steve at the end of the bed, tossing Bucky's shoe away, before he helps Bucky out of the other one, then his socks (Bucky hates sleeping in socks).

"Come on," Steve urges, patting Bucky's ankle. "I'm not lifting you up. Get on the bed."

Bucky would roll his eyes if he could keep them open long enough. He can't, though, so he does as he's told, dragging himself up the bed until his head is resting on the pillows and Steve climbs back in beside him. Then he sits up as much as he can, struggles out of his jacket, and falls back again. He shouldn't be sleeping in his suit, he knows, only he doesn't have the energy to take the rest of it off right now and doesn't give enough of a shit either.

"What about your date?" he asks while he tucks his arm under his pillow.

"I don't think she'll miss me very much. She had a better dancing partner when I left."

"Guess you don't have game after all," Bucky teases.

"I don't know," Steve says. "They threw an entire party for the guy I'm in bed with, so I don't think I'm doing that bad."

"We got pants on?" Steve doesn't respond; they both know the answer. "Then you don't have game."

He can practically hear Steve waggling his eyebrows when he says, "You want to change that?"

"Careful, Steve," Bucky mumbles into Steve's shoulder. "Don't wanna give people the wrong idea."

"No," Steve says quietly. "Wouldn't want to do that."

Bucky somehow gets even closer to him. "Night," he says.

"Goodnight, Buck."

 

-o-

 

Things settle after the night of the party— as much as they can, anyway.

No one even noticed he left the party early, apparently, or his parents don't mention it at breakfast the next morning, in any case. Bucky has a wicked hangover to show for his idiocy, but the worst of it is behind him. When he finally gets home the following afternoon, he lets out a sigh of relief. If he made it through last night, he can handle anything.

His life doesn't miraculously turn back to the way it used to be, but it's getting there. He spends almost all his time at home, something he never used to do, only he's making more of an effort to talk to his family, to at least go for a walk around the block instead of just working out in the gym. He still wakes up sweating and panting from nightmares that he's already lived, and he can't help but tense at every weird noise in his apartment, expecting another break in, but he doubts that's going to change any time soon.

Baby steps. He knows it's going to take a long time to ever return to a semblance of who he used to be, but it feels like he's actually moving forward, finally. With each day that passes, he feels more and more like a person again.

He considers reconnecting with other friends that he used to have, ones that aren't Steve, yet he can't muster up the energy to do it. Their lives have continued in a way his hasn't, and he knows that he didn't have any other friendships that would survive the five years he's been away. It'd just be awkward if he tried to rekindle anything with any of them now, so he doesn't bother.

Turns out he doesn't have to. He comes home one day from a jog— Clint following him as he went, as if Bucky wouldn't notice— to find his answering machine alerting him to a new message. He hits it as he heads for the fridge, wiping sweat from his brow, expecting his parents or sisters or Steve.

He's screwing off the lid of a water bottle when it starts to play, and the slick plastic almost slips out of his hand. "James? It's Pepper. Pepper Potts? Tony and I unfortunately didn't get a chance to welcome you back at your party a few weeks ago, but we're throwing a New Year's Eve party and we'd love for you to come. I'll send you an invitation in the mail, too, but I thought a phone call was more appropriate. Feel free to bring a date! We hope you can make it!"

Bucky takes a sip of his water, eyebrows knit together, and leaves the rest of it on the counter in favor of crossing the room to replay the message. He listens to it all the way through again, Pepper's cheerful, formal tone echoing through the room, and wonders how the hell Tony Stark's girlfriend even got his number.

Then again, it's Tony Stark. Bucky's parents are rich and powerful, in their own right, but Tony Stark goes above and beyond anyone else in the city. Bucky would never consider the two of them  _friends_ , really, because Tony's got a few years on him and it's not like they went to school together, but they've always run in the same crowds. Most of the parties Bucky used to go to, Tony went to as well. He was always on the guest list when Bucky's parents were having a get together, and Bucky had gone to a handful of Tony's parties when he was younger, too.

The fact that he's having his girlfriend call and formally invite Bucky to one of his events is a little weird and unexpected, though. How friendly she sounded, like they're more than just two people who run in the same social circle? Also weird. But five years ago Bucky wouldn't even hesitate to go. He would've said yes immediately when given the opportunity to go to one of Tony's parties.

He leaves the message on the machine and tells himself that, as long as nothing else comes up, he'll go.

Maybe it's time to move past baby steps.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Bucky is out shopping during the first snowfall of the year. Clint is parked somewhere down the street, waiting for him, but Bucky asked him to stay in the car today. He doesn't need a bodyguard following him  _everywhere_. No one's going to attack him while he's buying socks, okay? And honestly, it makes him feel more antsy when Clint is shadowing his every move than he feels when he's by himself. It's not that he doesn't trust Clint to protect him, it's that he trusts himself to protect himself, and if something  _does_  happen and Clint is nearby, Bucky's going to be worrying about protecting Clint too.

It doesn't help that a bodyguard makes it difficult to blend in, either. Bucky gets enough weird looks on his own when someone recognizes him; Clint draws too much unwanted attention.

However, he should probably buy Clint a Christmas present, now that he thinks about it, but he has no fucking idea what to get the guy. It's not like they  _hang out_. Clint is, technically, his employee. Or his parents' employee, anyway, and they don't, like, get coffee and talk about their lives or anything. But Bucky likes him. Clint could be a lot more annoying than he is, and he doesn't look at Bucky like some fragile thing he needs to place himself in front of to protect from the world, and Bucky is so grateful for that that he definitely should be getting the guy a gift.

A new suit without tears in it, maybe? A gift certificate to whatever coffee shop he goes to regularly? He'll call Steve and ask him for suggestions later. Steve is way better at gift shopping than Bucky is, sadly enough. Having a lot of money to spend on gifts doesn't mean he actually knows what to buy.

He doesn't even notice what's happening until he leaves the store he's in. The shop is disconnected from the outside world, music playing, people quietly talking to each other as they look through the racks, and it's impossible to hear the screams outside until he opens the door.

Bucky freezes, eyes wide, and looks up at the sky. Snow continues to fall, landing on his face and melting instantly, but there aren't just clouds in the sky. There're  _things_. Small, metallic. Bucky can't make out what they are until one swoops down low enough for him to get a better look at it.

It looks like a bird. Like a bird made of metal. It moves the same way, wings propelling it forward and up until it dives back down, and then it hits the ground a few stores down from Bucky and explodes.

That explains the screaming. People are running in every direction, diving into stores, bolting from their cars as traffic jams and the birds dive-bomb the area. One of the cars catches on fire, a woman frantically shoves Bucky out of the way to run into the store he's just stepped out of, and it's not just the snow filling the air anymore. It's smoke, acrid and heady, filling his lungs and nostrils the way it did when the plane crashed.

For a moment Bucky can't move. He's rooted to the spot, seeing the wreckage instead of the city before him, feeling the phantom pain, the searing burns and the agonizing ache in his left arm.

Someone else runs into him, pushing him back against the glass doors of the store, and the world comes back into focus just in time to see one of the mechanical birds heading straight for him. Through the screaming of the people on the streets, the beeping of a car alarm, the smashing of glass in the distance, he can hear it. The rhythmic, haunting  _tick, tick, tick_  of the bird coming at him.

He dives to the right at the last second and the bird collides with the glass. He covers his face with his left arm, closes his eyes, and feels the shattered glass trying to slice through his heavy coat, tearing the bags in his arms to shreds, everything he bought today falling out onto the sidewalk.

A shadow passes overhead, and for one horrified moment Bucky thinks it's another bird, only bigger, and can't imagine the kind of damage one of these things could do if it's big enough to create a show like that. When he looks up he has to do a double take, not quite believing what he sees.

It's one thing to see them on TV, or on his computer screen, and another to see it in real life. It's like, up until this point, they weren't real. It was just a big hoax that everyone's in on and Bucky was stupid enough to believe. But Iron Man soars overhead, faster than the metal suit he's wearing should be able to move, very much real and being chased by a swarm of the metal birds, dipping down and then flying higher up in loops to avoid them, the birds hot on his tail.

There has to be at least a hundred of them, darkening the sky and filling the air with that same  _tick, tick, tick_ , only magnified. A few of them suddenly rear back, changing directions, and Bucky hears the sound of gunshots before he sees her running between the parked cars, a pistol in each hand, the birds flocking towards her.

On the ground at his feet, half-covered by one of the shirts he'd bought, is the mask he'd gotten to wear to Tony's party.

The invitation had shown up in his mailbox two days after the voicemail Pepper left. Bucky hadn't opened it at first, was having second thoughts about going, and those second thought turned into third, fourth, fifth thoughts when he'd read what was inside.

_Masquerade party_. Or, actually,  _Tony Stark's New Year's Masquerade Party_ , the invitation had boasted. Bucky had nearly thrown the thing out the moment he'd finished reading, just imagining the party in his head and how terrible it will be. The party at his parents' house had been bad enough, when he could tell exactly who everyone was. A party where everyone is in masks, whose identities he can't figure out until he speaks to them? He'd rather throw himself off the top floor of Stark Tower than go to something like that.

And then Steve had to go and tell him he was going. That most people from his work were going, too, and he'd been invited, and he hoped Bucky would come. Bucky hadn't had much of a choice after that.

The mask had been a last second decision today, something he'd picked up at one of the stores he'd went to. It's small, black, covers just around his eyes. He looks at it now, sitting on the ground, and then back up as Black Widow continues to dodge and shoot the birds flying towards her. She manages to shoot three of them down as Bucky picks up the mask and puts it on, and then she jumps over the hood of a car and ducks behind the one beside it as two more of the birds crash into the car and explode.

The birds are fast, sure, but she's smarter than they are. They're tracking her and she uses that to her advantage, turning at the last second, throwing herself behind any cover she can find, shooting when she has the chance.

There're only five of them left when she gets close to Bucky, and she shoots four of them down with quick, easy precision, but then she curses, pushing down on the trigger, and fumbles for another a clip, frantically looking around for more cover. She's on the sidewalk now, no cars close enough to hide behind, and there's no way she's going to be able to reload her gun and shoot before it hits her.

Bucky moves so fast it's not even a conscious thought, snatching the bird out of the air before it can hit her. The metal of it groans against the metal of his own hand, the  _tick, tick, tick_  fills his ears, and he throws it away from them as hard as he can before the thing explodes mid-air, metal remains cascading down around them like the fat flakes of snow still falling from the sky.

She turns to him, her mask hiding her face. Bucky can hear her soft panting and his own ragged breaths despite the chaos around them.

"Any good with a gun?" she asks as she reloads both of hers, finding the extra ammunition at last.

Bucky grins. "You wanna find out?"

She snorts, handing over one of the pistols, and starts moving. The street is abandoned now, only them and the sound of car alarms going off. The rest of the swarm followed Iron Man away, only a handful bothering to come after her, all of them destroyed.

"The explosives are in the stomach," she says as they move. "If they're far enough away, aim there. If they're too close, try to disconnect the head from the body. I think that's where the controls are. It should take them down without setting off the bombs, but they explode upon impact so be careful."

"What the hell  _are_  they?" Bucky asks. The weight of the pistol feels far too comfortable in his hand.

"Mechanical birds."

"Yeah, I figured that part out myself. I meant— what are they doing?"

"Attacking the city."

He hopes she can see his unamused look through his mask. "Okay,  _why_?"

"That's what I'd like to know," she says while they round the corner. Then, to someone else, "Where are you? I'm— What? Are you sure?" Pause. "I can do it, but I'm too far; I'll need a ride."

As she's talking, six more of the birds swoop down in front of them. Bucky misses the first shot, a little rusty, but he takes out two of them. Black Widow keeps talking to whoever she's communicating and doesn't miss a step as she takes out the other four.

"Are you with Cap?" he hears her ask as the last bird explodes. She's still talking into whatever headset she has on underneath her mask that Bucky can't see. "I've got a surprise for him."

"What's going on?" Bucky asks her.

"We found the control station," she says, breaking into a jog. "If we can shut down their controls, they should all stop."

"Where is it?"

"Too far from here. We're meeting up with a few friends of mine."

He keeps pace with her, somehow, adrenaline pumping higher with each shot he takes. He doesn't miss after that first one, hitting each of the mechanical birds in the stomach like she instructed. Hardly any of them cross their path, especially compared to the flock that had been following Iron Man, but when they turn onto a street close to a club where Bucky had used his first fake I.D., he sees why. They've been too busy.

In the sky above them, Bucky can see Iron Man making loops, shooting as many of the birds out of the sky as he can. Falcon is with him, more graceful in the air than the clunky metal suit, but he spends more time avoiding the birds then taking any of them down. Somewhere up above, on top of one of the buildings, Hawkeye is taking out clusters of the birds, waiting until they get close enough to each other to shoot one in the stomach so the explosion will subsequently take out everything near it.

On the ground below, Captain America throws his shield into the air, hitting the birds perfectly in the necks so their bodies rain down from the sky instead of exploding in the air, ducking out of the way as they fall. A dozen of them dive for him at once, too fast for anyone to stop, but he crouches behind his shield, Bucky holds his breath, and the world gets a little brighter for a moment as they all detonate at the same time.

Bucky's heart is no longer pounding because it's possibly stopped beating. There's no way that little shield can protect him, not from something like that, but— but it does. Captain America stands back up and tosses his shield into the air again like he didn't just survive the impossible. Like this is a typical Wednesday for him. Oh, exploding birds? No big deal.

Black Widow runs right for him. Bucky followers her, realizing, probably at the same minute as she does, that he's become their target. He's the only one on the ground, aside from the two of them, and he doesn't have the advantage of being able to  _fucking fly_  to save him.

"Shoot and duck!" she yells at him, tossing him another clip of ammo as she empties hers into the sky.

Captain America moves towards them slowly, throwing his shield when he can but mostly using it to defend himself. The birds high in the air seem to be changing their mind, leaving the others alone, heading for him instead, and Bucky knows they can't fight them off. There're too many of them. They're slowing Captain America down, keeping him from running far by blocking his path.

"We need cover!" Bucky shouts at her, fumbling to reload his gun.

She glances at him, then at the space between them and Captain America, and nods. "Grab him and get into the nearest building," she orders.

Bucky stares at her. "What about you?"

"I'm shutting this down." She jumps up onto the nearest car. "Nice mask, by the way," she says. "It suits you." And then Bucky watches as Falcon swoops down, almost eerily similar to the mechanical birds, and yanks her up into the sky.

With her being flown safely away, he listens to her order, weaving around the cars, shooting off the last of his bullets even though they're useless. With every bird he takes down, a dozen more take its place, but still. Each one he shoots is another one that can't come after them. He's not completely useless.

The closer he gets to Captain America, he starts to notice that the birds flock to the shield when he throws it and only turn to go after him when he tries to run.  _Motion sensors_ , Bucky thinks. That's gotta be it. They must be designed to attack anything that moves on the ground, which would explain why they're barely bothering with anyone in the air.

They need to get into the air, into a building, or they need to stop moving.

The plan forms in his mind as he runs. His gun clicks, empty, but it doesn't matter. He can't shoot them all out of the sky, and there's no way they're going to make it to the nearest building. There's only one option, and Bucky isn't even sure it's going to work, but it's worth a try. He's seen what those birds can do to cars, to windows, and he knows that if one of them detonates close enough to them, they're screwed.

"Stop fighting and throw the shield!" he yells when he gets close enough to be heard.

Captain America turns around, like he hadn't realized anyone was behind him, and Bucky isn't too far away to miss the way his mouth hangs open. He gapes at Bucky, frozen as if he's not in the middle of a fight for his life. Beside him, one of the birds collides with a car, the windows shattering the moment it explodes, but Captain America keeps gaping at Bucky like he doesn't even notice.

More of them circle him, preparing to dive. _Tick, tick, tick._  How many times can he duck behind that shield before one of them finally gets through? Bucky doesn't want to find out.

" _Throw it_!"

Captain America snaps out of it at the last second, turning away from Bucky and tossing the shield away from himself with so much force that his entire body moves with it in a smooth arc.

Bucky reaches him as the shield goes flying, flings himself forward, tackles him to the ground. They land between two cars, one of them sunk low to the ground, tires deflated, the other's windows gone, glass surrounding them. It digs into Bucky's hand, stinging as it slices through his skin, the pain barely registering. The birds swoop overhead, close enough that their metallic whirs and clicking grows into a loud hum that seems to fill his ears and drown out everything else, and Bucky closes his eyes and holds his breath. There's a very likely chance that he's just singlehandedly dug both of their graves.

And then the birds pass. The clicking and whirs get fainter, and fainter, until Bucky can finally hear the car alarm going off a few feet from them. Bucky doesn't move from where he's lying flat over Captain America's body, too afraid of what will happen if he so much as twitches.

"Motion sensors," Bucky says, hushed and low. He doesn't know if they can track by sound, too. "Don't move."

"Moving's not really an option," Captain America says, his voice deeper than Bucky is expecting. It sounds raw, like he's been screaming for hours. Hoarse.

Bucky turns his head the slightest bit, but he can't see much without sitting up, something he doesn't dare do. Too much movement and they're fucked, and all he can see is the side of a strong jaw, a cut on a pale cheek, and the blue of the helmet covering the rest. He's weirdly, acutely aware of how solid and hard the body beneath him is.

"We wouldn't've made it to cover," Bucky adds, suddenly needing to justify his actions. "There were too many."

"I realized that a little too late," Captain America admits, still sounding gruff. "How'd you know they'd follow the shield?"

Bucky might not be able to see  _his_  face, but that means he can't see Bucky's sheepish look, either. "I didn't. Figured it was either try and possibly get blown up, or not try and definitely get blown up."

"Smart. This is definitely better than being blown up."

Bucky almost jerks back at that, only remembers at the last second that he can't, and lets out a long breath as he tries to figure out whether or not that was actually as flirtatious as it sounded, or if he's just an idiot. Probably just an idiot, really, but he doesn't get a chance to confirm that theory before he hears a loud thump. And then another. And then he's being forcefully pushed, rolled onto his back, and a solid, hard body settles on top of his as, up in the sky, the birds begin to fall limp and plummet to the ground, no longer diving on their own.

Someone shut off the controls.

The smack of one of the birds hitting Captain America's back is loud enough that Bucky winces, knowing that has to hurt. That's at least twenty pounds of metal dropping like a brick from the sky, and he doesn't move off Bucky, doesn't attempt to get to cover at all. Doesn't even make a sound. He curves his body over Bucky's, completely shielding him, and Bucky gets the first good look at his face— strong jaw, pink lips, closed eyes— just as he hears another thump and the groan of metal as something a lot heavier than one of the birds lands on the car next to them.

"You know," Falcon says, standing on top of the car, wings extended in all their glory, "normally I  _like_  birds."

Captain America laughs as he pushes himself to his feet. He offers Bucky a hand, tugs him up, and then brushes himself down before he asks, "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Bucky says. "Are you—?"

"I'm fine." His back is turned to Bucky completely. "Have you seen my shield?"

"Well," Falcon says, "it's gotta be here somewhere."

"Thanks. Real helpful."

Falcon grins, eying Bucky. "We adopting strays now? He's cute. Can I name him?"

"He's not staying," Captain America says without turning around. He picks his way through the wreckage, looking for his shield, and Bucky follows him. "He's going home before anyone starts asking questions."

"What if  _I_  have questions?" Bucky demands indignantly.

Captain America ignores him. He finds his shield, straps it to his back, and lifts his fist in the air triumphantly. "Found it," he says. "Falcon?"

Bucky realizes a beat too late that his hand is in the air for a completely different reason. Falcon jumps off the car, wings easily lifting him into the air, and swoops down to pull Captain America up from the ground like a bird preying on an unsuspecting mouse in a field.

Bucky stares at them as they fly off, mouth slack. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. " _Seriously?"_

There's no one left to reply to him. The area around him looks like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, abandoned cars and smashed windows, buildings with chunks taken out of them from the explosives, not a person in sight. Except— no, there is. Pressed to the windows off the stores around him, like nosey neighbors as the cops show up next door, peeking through their curtains.

Bucky isn't stupid enough to stick around. He gets off the street, moving down the block quickly, waiting until he's a good few blocks away before discreetly taking off the mask and shoving it in his pocket.

Most of the streets he passes look like they've been hit hard. People are finally coming back out onto the sidewalks, leaving buildings behind to see what kind of damage has been done. It's bad, really bad, but not as bad as it could've been. Somewhere in the distance an ambulance's sirens blare, but at least he's not picking his way over bodies as he walks. More people could've gotten hurt. If the birds hadn't been so busy with the Avengers, they probably would've went after the buildings instead, and how well would they've held up against thousands of those things?

Hardly anyone looks at him as he walks. The snow keeps falling, the wind gets stronger, and Bucky starts to notice the cold. He hadn't, when he was fighting, adrenaline keeping him warm, but now it cuts through his jacket like a knife, makes his nose feel numb. He tries to zip his jacket up farther, can't, and hopes he's not too far from home.

Someone honks and Bucky looks up. This street hadn't been hit as hard, with barely a scratch on anything in the vicinity and the roads clear enough for people to drive. There's a car idling beside him, familiar, but he waits until the front window rolls down and Clint raises his eyebrows to stop.

The car is so warm. The moment he sits down, he starts to realize how tired he is.

"So, uh." Clint looks at Bucky over his shoulder. "I sort of figured you'd be a while so I went to get pizza, and when I came back, uh."

"Exploding metal birds were attacking the city?" Bucky supplies.

"And they ran out of slices of pepperoni."

Bucky snorts a laugh and finally feels himself relaxing. He breathes slowly, counting each one, until they no longer sound sharp or strained. The calmer he gets, the more it hits him that that all just happened. That a lot of people could've gotten hurt. That he could've been one of them, throwing himself into the fight like an idiot for no reason. That— that  _Steve_  could've been one of them. He's at work, right? Did the attack reach him?

Shit. Shit. Shit. Bucky scrambles for his phone, no longer calm, and brings up his mother's number first. She answers, thank god, tells him that the girls had just gotten home from school and everyone is fine. He breathes a little easier, fingers finding Steve's number with more ease. And he doesn't answer.

_No_ , Bucky thinks, trying again. With each ring of the phone in his ear, his panic levels rise higher and higher.

"Come on," he groans. "Answer the damn phone."

Clint meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Steve?" he asks.

"He's not fucking answering," Bucky says, trying yet again. Three times. Steve still doesn't answer.

Clint pulls out his own phone, even though he's driving; Bucky hardly pays him any attention. Logically, he's aware that Steve is probably just at work, busy, that maybe Tony Stark doesn't accept 'exploding birds attacking the city' as a reason to let everyone off for the rest of the day, yet that doesn't calm Bucky at all. You'd think that, like, people almost  _dying_  would make Steve answer his phone, but apparently not.

If something happened to him while Bucky was out playing superhero…

_Fuck_. Steve needs to answer his damn phone.

"Bucky?"

" _What_?" Bucky snaps. "I mean— sorry. What?"

"Maybe he's at home," Clint suggests.

"That doesn't really help me right now if he's still not…" Bucky trails off, looking out the window, and realizes that they're parked outside of Steve's building.

Screw a new suit. Bucky is buying Clint an island for Christmas. "Thank you," he breathes, reaching for the door handle, but it sticks. He tries to push on it, shoulder it open, and it refuses to budge. "Can you unlock this?"

Instead, Clint says, "You were fighting."

Bucky blinks, the words taking a moment to settle in. "What?"

"You were fighting," Clint repeats. "I saw you."

"I." Bucky licks his lips. Shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Clint scoffs at him. "The next time you want to do something like that, maybe come up with a better excuse than 'I don't know what you're talking about'. Just a suggestion."

Bucky tries the door again. It still won't open. "Noted. Now unlock the door."

"I might know some people who could use another pair of hands," Clint says, ignoring him. "You know, instead of you just running into fights at random."

"You want to hook me up with your bodyguard connections?" Bucky says dubiously.

"Not exactly. But you might want to think about getting some gloves, too. There aren't a lot of people in this city with metal arms. Might give you away."

Bucky hadn't even thought of that. Honestly, he hadn't thought of anything, really. He just wanted to help. But— "Can you not tell anyone? Like my parents. Or Steve. You can't tell Steve. He'll get the dumb idea that he should be fighting too, or something." Actually, the fact that he hasn't gone out and bought a pair of tights already is astonishing. "Please."

Clint's face does this weird thing, his shoulders shaking. "Okay," he says tightly. "I won't tell Steve."

"Now unlock the door."

The door clicks, unlocked, and Bucky forgets to say goodbye in his haste to get out of the car.

If Steve isn't answering his phone, chances are he isn't at home. Still, Bucky has to try. He knocks on Steve's door, hard enough that his knuckles sting, and waits. And waits. He tries again, louder, his palms hitting the wood of the door, and Steve still doesn't answer.

Not answering his phone. Not at home. If something's happened to him, if he's not okay—

"Bucky?"

Bucky stumbles into Steve's arms, his knees weak with mind-numbing relief and  _anger_. "Why the  _hell_  didn't you answer your phone?" he demands, words muffled by Steve's shoulder. "What is wrong with you? I thought— I thought you— I didn't know if you were—"

"Hey," Steve says lowly. "I'm okay, Buck."

"No, you're an ass," Bucky mutters against Steve's skin. His naked skin.

He pulls away, confused, to find Steve's entire chest naked. And his legs. He's wearing nothing but a skin-tight pair of— dear god— boxer briefs, and there's a fine coating of sweat on his rapidly rising and falling chest. His face is red. He's nearly naked, sweaty, and Bucky is still touching him.

He steps back abruptly. "Why are you half-naked?"

Steve pulls him into the apartment and shuts the door. He runs a hand through his hair, lifting it from where it's sticking to his forehead with sweat, and hesitates. "I was sleeping," he says after a moment.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You're sweaty," he points out. "And you're breathing heavy."

"I was having an, uh. An interesting dream," Steve explains.

Bucky is glad he took a step back. He can feel his face getting hot. "Oh," he says. "Sorry I interrupted, I guess."

"You didn't," Steve assures him. "You're— wait, you're bleeding."

"What? Where?" Bucky reaches up, touching his face, but Steve pulls his hand back down.

"I have bandages in the bathroom," he says, already leading the way.

Bucky waits a beat, ashamedly watching Steve's ass he walks across the apartment in nothing but those god damn briefs, before he follows.

Unlike Steve's old bedroom, the bathroom is almost identical to the way it was five years ago. Bucky sits on the edge of the bathtub, still shaky with the relief of knowing that Steve is okay, as Steve roots around under the sink. He wishes Steve would put some fucking clothes on. He wishes Steve would walk around like this all the time.

This isn't the first time one of them has had to patch the other up in this bathroom. Looking back, Bucky feels kinda bad for their parents. Steve can be dumb and reckless, but Bucky can be just as bad, and he was never all that great at talking Steve out of doing things because, half the time, he wanted to do them too. Even though they usually ended up with at least one of them injured in some way. If they could help it, they'd sneak into the bathroom and deal with it before one of their parents could notice. If they couldn't, they normally wound up grounded.

"What happened?" Steve asks as he cleans the wound on Bucky's cheek that, now he's aware of it, stings like a bitch.

"You don't  _know_?"

"I was sleeping, remember?"

"There was an attack on the city."

Steve's back is turned to him as he riffles around for the Neosporin. "Seems to be happening a lot," he says quietly, sounding tired and sad. "Is everyone okay?"

"I think so."

"How'd you get hurt?"

"I was, uh, out shopping. I wasn't even close to it, really, but people. They panicked, you know. Someone pushed me and I scraped my cheek on a brick wall. I don't even really know what happened myself."

Steve turns back around, Neosporin in hand. "Good," he says. "If something like that happens again, I want you stay away from it, Bucky."

Guilt tastes bitter in his mouth. He'll never like lying to Steve, not ever, but he can't tell Steve that he sort of tried to join in on the fight because he has something to prove to himself, prove that what  _they_  did to him doesn't mean he can't do good. That no matter what they had planned for him, Bucky can be better. They taught him to fight and to kill, but those are skills he can use to save people, and he wants that. He wanted a chance to do that, as stupid and dumb and reckless (damn it, he's such a hypocrite, he would kill Steve if the roles were reversed) as it is.

"You too," he says forcefully. "I tried calling and you didn't answer and— I couldn't handle it if something happened to you, Steve. I couldn't. I don't know what the hell I would do without you, I really don't."

"I can't handle losing you again either," Steve says as he drops down to Bucky's level, crouching in front of him. "I don't know how I did it the first time, but I can't go through that again. You don't need to worry about me. If something happens, worry about  _you_."

"I'm always gonna worry about you," Bucky mutters while Steve applies the antibiotic. "I don't think I can change that now. Kind of a habit, at this point."

"I'm always going to worry about you too," Steve says quietly.

When Steve's done with the cut on Bucky's cheek, he hesitates, hand hovering between them, before tucking Bucky's hair back behind his ear. His hand lingers on Bucky's cheek, the unwounded one, his thumb softly brushing Bucky's jaw. Bucky leans into it unconsciously, gaze falling to Steve's lips. He wets his own, thinks  _just fucking kiss me_ , and then  _get it together, Barnes._

He pulls away before he can do something stupid, ruin the moment by crossing that fine line that he's been aware of since he was old enough to realize the difference between loving your best friend and being  _in love_  with your best friend. "Put some damn clothes on, Steve," he says with a shake of his head. "No one needs to see"— your amazing pecs—"any of that."

Steve chuckles, dropping his hand. "Guess you'll think twice about showing up without calling."

"I  _did_  call," Bucky reminds him. "Many times."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Bucky says quickly. "Just answer your damn phone the next time the city's in chaos, alright?"

"I promise," Steve says. Then, after a beat: "And you stay as far away from it as you can. Promise me."

Bucky smiles winningly at him as if guilt isn't eating away at his insides. "I promise."

Bucky stands up, stretching, and doesn't notice the mask fall out of his pocket until Steve picks it up. He turns it over in his hand, frowning at it, and Bucky's heart lodges in his throat.  _Shit_.

"What is this?" Steve asks, sounding carefully calm.

"It's for Tony's party," Bucky says, snatching it out of Steve's hand, shoving it back into his pocket. "Masquerade, remember? I picked that up while I was out."

"Oh." Steve is staring at his pocket like he can see right through it. "Of course it is."

Bucky clears his throat. "Clothes?" he prompts.

"Huh? Oh, right." Steve nods. "Put on coffee, would you?"

"I'm a guest and you're making  _me_  put on the coffee?"

"You haven't been a guest since that time you threw up on the couch when we both had the flu."

Bucky laughs, feeling more at home here than he ever does in his apartment, as Steve ducks into the bedroom to get dressed. He heads to the kitchen to make coffee, only because he really wants some and not because Steve told him to, but the whole time he's trying to figure out how to use Steve's machine, he can't help but dwell over what Steve would say if he knew what Bucky did today. What Steve would  _do_  if he knew.

Bucky is lucky to still be alive after all that's happened to him. Lucky he survived the crash; lucky he survived what  _they_  did to him. He shouldn't be throwing all that away to prove something to himself, but no matter how guilty he feels about it, he doesn't regret it.

And maybe… maybe Steve never has to find out.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Christmas comes before Bucky can blink. Suddenly every shop window is filled with greens and reds and golds and silvers, there're twinkling lights everywhere, and the damn  _music_ — it's unescapable. He used to love Christmas, way back when, but the last five Christmases passed him by without him even knowing they were happening.

Bucky remembers the holidays being a Big Thing all his life. His parents used to throw an annual Christmas dinner every year, with only their closest friends invited and so much food on the table that it's a wonder it didn't collapse. His mother was always running around frantically, in some state of panic over whatever charity event she was hosting that year, and his father was always hurrying to do a week's worth of work in one night so he could take time off to spend with them.

This year isn't like that. Everything is calmer than it ever used to be, his parents cancelling all of their plans so they can spend time as a family. Bucky knows it's because of him, isn't stupid enough not to realize that they're changing everything because he's back, but this is the one time he doesn't feel guilty about it. He spends the entire week at home with them, reclaiming his old room, and it's nice. It's quiet. It's better than being stuck in an empty apartment with nothing but Christmas specials playing on TV all day and night. (And if Bucky doesn't talk as much as he used to, keeps to his room more often than he did before, no one mentions it. Everyone acts like things are fine, and Bucky is happy to let them.)

Steve spends the holidays with them, at Bucky's mother's insistence. It was never more than Steve and his mom, before, since as long as Bucky can remember, and now that she's gone…

They're not kids anymore. Steve is given one of the guest bedrooms down the hall from Bucky's, and it's weird, knowing Steve is staying in the house but not in Bucky's bed while Bucky sleeps on the floor. They used to spend so much time at each other's places that their parents should've just gotten them both two beds in each of their rooms, but Bucky never minded spending the night in the sleeping bag. It was as close to camping as they ever got, aside from that time when they were twelve and Bucky begged his parents to set up a tent in the backyard. (They snuck back into the house by two a.m. when something broke a branch in the woods behind the tent.)

Bucky feels more than a little guilty at how excited his sisters are to have him staying at the house. At least one of them is following him at all times. When he goes down to the kitchen at breakfast, Jocelyn begs him to make her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; when he watches a movie with Steve in one of the family rooms, Emily pushes her way in between them and falls asleep halfway through; Rebecca plays it cooler, older than the others, but spends half an hour lecturing Bucky about not having a cellphone.

He hasn't spent as much time with the three of them as he should, but he's trying to make up for that one step at a time.

"Snowmen," Steve repeats Christmas day, after the gifts have been given and opened and everyone's finally changed out of their pajamas, when Bucky brings the idea up to him.

"Come on, Steve," Bucky says. "It'll be fun. We'll make it a new Christmas Day tradition."

"Come on, Steve," Jo echoes, tugging at Steve's sleeve. She pouts, just a little, and while Bucky's pout has never, ever worked on Steve, hers does.

"Alright," Steve says with an exasperated sigh, as if he's not fighting to hold back a smile. "Let's make snowmen."

Bucky eyes Steve the whole time they get dressed to go out into the cold. He has a bad habit of hiding everything he's feeling behind a smile, and Bucky hasn't missed the way he drops his gaze sometimes, or falls quiet. Bucky read once that the holidays are always the worst for people who've lost someone close to them, but any time Bucky even hedges toward talking about Steve's mom, Steve changes the subject.

"You wanna have a competition?" Bucky challenges as he pulls on his gloves, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Steve looks up, a scarf halfway wrapped around his neck, and raises an eyebrow. "What kind of competition?"

"Whoever makes the better snowman wins."

"Wins what?"

Bucky shrugs. "Whatever they want. One thing of their choosing."

Steve contemplates that, eyes narrowed, and Bucky can tell he's weighing the pros and cons and the chances of Bucky winning. But Bucky knows Steve, and no matter how long he pretends to think on it, Steve can't back down from a challenge.

"Okay," Steve says, predictably. "You're on. But no cheating."

Bucky grins. "I don't need to cheat to kick your ass."

Less than an hour later Bucky is sneezing and Steve is grinning proudly as two snowmen stand before them. Or— one and a half, really. The one on the left is perfect, like something straight out of the cheesiest, lamest Christmas movie, just a top hat away from coming to life. Steve's scarf is wrapped around its neck, there's an actual carrot being used for its nose, and Jocelyn and Steve managed to find the best branches to use as its arms.

The one on the right is… a mess. Emily looks way too proud of the  _thing_  they made, both hands on her hips as she regards the thing like it's a masterpiece and not leaning more than the tower of Pisa. The middle ball of snow cracked when they tried to stick the arms in, and it looks lumpy from where Bucky attempted to put it back together. The pipe they stole from their dad lies on the ground at its feet, and the smile they drew on its face is menacing. There had only been one carrot in the kitchen left over from dinner to be used for a nose, and since Steve and Jo got it, Bucky had to improvise. His hand is still cold from trying to mold snow into a vaguely nose-shaped object, and, honestly, it looks like a dick sticking out of its face.

"It's think it's great," Emily declares, tilting her chin in a way that reminds Bucky of himself. Complete defiance.

"It's ugly," Jocelyn tells her.

"It's not  _ugly_. You're—"

"I think it's unique," Steve interrupts before a fight can break out.

"Unique," Emily repeats, nodding her head slowly. "Yeah, it's  _unique_. It's way better than yours."

"No, it's not."

"Yes it is!"

"Is unique another word for 'ugly as sin'?" Bucky whispers.

"No," Steve denies. "It's another word for 'I totally won this challenge'."

"Yeah, well. Yours isn't all that great either. Stop looking so smug."

Steve dubiously raises an eyebrow at that and Bucky shoves him playfully, pretending to be offended. Steve shoves back, not very hard, but Bucky feels his feet slip on a bit of ice hiding underneath the snow, feels the world tipping backwards, and his arms pinwheel, trying to catch onto something, but he misses Steve's arm by an inch and hits the ground hard.

He hears the crunch of snow, feels a stick poking into his back, and realizes, with dawning horror, that he's landed on their snowman.

"Shit," Bucky states.

"Oh, god." Steve offers him a hand, tugging him to his feet, but it's too late. Their ugly, lopsided, lumpy snowman is no more than a pile of snow with a scarf buried inside of it. "I'm so sorry."

Bucky looks to his sisters, expecting tears or screaming, but Emily is staring at Bucky with narrowed eyes, no tears in sight. "You killed my snowman," she says darkly. "Prepare to die."

Bucky's mouth falls open. "Who the hell let her watch the Princess Bride?" he demands.

For the first time he can remember since he's been back, Bucky's guard is completely down. So much so, in fact, that he doesn't even see it coming until the snowball hits him right in the face, with such precise aim that he's more impressed than angry.

His face freezing, melting snow dripping from his hair, Bucky slowly turns around to look at his sister. She squeaks, eyes going wide, but before Bucky can retaliate Steve jumps in front of her, arms spread, and yells, "Run! I'll fight him off!"

Bucky scoops up a handful of snow as the girls go running for the house. Steve stays where he is, blocking Bucky's path with his enormous body, looking even bigger dressed in the layers of winter clothing.

"Traitor," Bucky says as he slowly, methodically forms the snow into a perfect snowball. "You know what happens to traitors?"

"I have a feeling I'm about to find out."

Bucky tackles him into the snow and Steve hits the ground with an  _oof_. It's something Bucky never would've dared to do before, when he could've seriously hurt Steve, but now he's smirking as he settles on top of Steve's hips, snowball raised threateningly.

"Any last words?" he asks.

Steve cups Bucky's cheek with a gloved hand, a solemn look on his face. "Do you what you gotta do, Buck."

Bucky groans and tosses away the snowball. "I'll go easy on you this time," he says as he struggles to his feet, careful not to step on ice again, "but only this time."

Steve sticks out his hand and Bucky huffs before helping him to his feet.

He regrets not pelting Steve with the snowball when they get into the house and Steve keeps smiling this smug, irritating grin. Steve's snowman would've won even if Bucky's hadn't been crushed, and they both know it, but that doesn't mean Steve's gotta be a sore winner about it.

"So I get whatever I want, huh?" Steve says, just to rub it in.

"That was the deal," Bucky mutters.

"Just checking."

Bucky makes a face at him and sniffs, feeling a cold coming on. He bends down, untying the laces, and gets an idea when Steve bends down to do the same. His back is to Bucky, completely unguarded, totally vulnerable. Bucky strips off his gloves, grinning mischievously as he creeps closer to Steve, but he waits until Steve straightens up and looks over his shoulder to strike.

The metal of his left hand is freezing from the cold, and he slips it under the back of Steve's shirt, pressing it flat against the small of Steve's back. Steve honest-to-god screams like a girl when the cold metal touches his skin.

Bucky nearly collapses against the wall with his laughter. Steve whirls around, cheeks still red from the cold, and glares a hole into Bucky's skull. "You're gonna pay for that," he threatens, stalking towards Bucky like he can actually be intimidating with a red nose and snow melting in his hair.

"Oh yeah?"

Steve leans in close, pinning Bucky against the wall, and everything goes from hilarious to Not Funny in the Slightest so fast that Bucky's head spins. Steve smells like the cold, fresh air, and he's wearing a soft sweater that wasn't made for arms like his. Bucky wants to run his hands through Steve's wet hair until it sticks up, wants to pull Steve closer, wants to press his chapped lips to Steve's.

And then Steve shoves one of his damp, cold gloves down the front of Bucky's shirt and Bucky yelps, the spell broken.

"Jackass," Bucky breathes, pulling the wet glove out of his shirt.

"Takes one to know one," Steve says maturely.

"You know you suck at comebacks, right?"

"I have another glove and I'm not afraid to—"

"When you boys are done bickering," Bucky's father interrupts, appearing in the hallway like he just teleported there— or Steve and Bucky were too busy screwing with each other to hear him coming, "dinner's ready."

"Right." Bucky stands taller, tries to act like there's not a glove-shaped wet spot on the front of his shirt. He feels like he's fifteen again and he's been caught with dirty magazines under his bed. "We'll be there in a minute."

Steve waits until Bucky's father is gone to laugh so hard he snorts. "Hilarious," Bucky says. "You're a real comedian."

"Thank you."

Bucky rolls his eyes, goes to follow his father to the dining room, but Steve's hand wraps around his wrist and holds him in place. "Wait," he says. "I think I know what I want for winning."

"Really."

Steve nods. He goes to say something, mouth open, but then he hesitates, running a hand through his hair. "Tony's party," he says eventually. "We should go."

"I was already planning on going," Bucky reminds him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I meant— together."

"Was that not the plan?" Bucky is confused. "We always ride together."

" _Together_ ," Steve emphasizes.

"Together," Bucky repeats, refusing to see more into this than Steve is intending.

"Yeah. I mean—" Steve tugs the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands, nervously. "A lot of my coworkers are going to be there, and most of them have dates, so I thought… If we go together, we won't be the odd ones out."

Bucky's mouth feels dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of it, but he still manages to ask, "What about Natasha?"

"Natasha is covered in the date department, trust me."

"So you're taking me to make your ex jealous," Bucky guesses.

"What?" Steve laughs. " _No_. I wouldn't do that, for one thing. And Natasha and I were never like that. We went to your parents' party as  _friends_. I thought you knew that."

"Oh," Bucky says. He didn't know that, actually. He damn well would've liked to know that, Steve.

"You can say no," Steve says quickly, taking Bucky's confusion the wrong way. "If you don't want to, it's fine. We don't have to."

"Okay," Bucky says.

"Was that an okay as in  _yes_ , or—"

"Yeah," Bucky says. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest but he shrugs, playing it off like it's no big thing. Steve is asking Bucky to be his date. Whatever. He can be cool about this. He can totally be cool about this. "We can go together."

Steve's smile is so bright. Did he actually think Bucky would say no?

"We should, uh." Bucky nods towards the dining room. "Dinner."

"Right." Steve nods.

Their hands brush as they walk and Bucky wonders if it's the cold that's left Steve's cheeks stained pink, or something else.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

When he told himself he could be cool about this, he was so wrong.

New Year's Eve comes way too quickly, and Bucky starts freaking out. He feels like a fucking idiot, standing in the bathroom looking at his hair in the mirror, trying to figure out what the hell to do with it, and he's not even dressed yet. He seriously considers just chopping it off, right then and there, but if he does a hack job of it he'll be worse off than he is right now, and he doesn't have time to make a hairdressing appointment before he has to go. (Well, maybe if he called his mom and had her pull some strings he  _might_.)

Fuck it. He tugs a brush through his hair, leaves it at that, and gets dressed. He reknots his tie four times before he's satisfied with it, and then he changes his shoes twice, as if there's any different between the two pairs, as if Steve has ever been one to give a shit about clothes the way Bucky does.

He doesn't bother with cologne at all, not when it used to make it harder for Steve to breathe. He figures he probably should've shaved, but he hadn't bothered and he can't do it now that he's dressed. Maybe Steve likes stubble. Maybe Steve asked him out on a date  _as friends_  and Bucky is making an ass of himself by thinking that anything he does is going to change that.

At the last second he puts on the mask and takes a quick glance at himself. The mask shadows his eyes, and when his hair falls into his face, too, it's almost impossible to tell it's him. There's a disconnect between his outfit— the perfectly fitting suit, the shiny shoes, the glittering, expensive watch— and the rest of him, his hair too wild, the mask too dark. But he doesn't look bad. He makes a face at himself, smirking a bit, and decides that he looks pretty damn good, actually. Not like the person he used to be, but a mix between who he was and who he is now. A halfway point.

His phone rings and Bucky has to take a moment to collect himself before he answers it with a, "Hey, what's up?" that sounded less lame in his head.

"I'm running a little late," Steve tells him. He's breathless, his voice higher than usual. "Can I meet you at the party? Is that okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. Cool. Totally okay."

"Great." Steve doesn't sound nearly as stupid as Bucky does. "I'll see you there."

"See you there," Bucky echoes.

He puts the phone down and rolls his eyes at himself. This is  _Steve_. If there's one person in the world Bucky doesn't have to be nervous around, it's him. Which is ironic, since Bucky has never been nervous to go on a date with anyone before in his life, and yet here he is, feeling like he's standing on unstable ground that's seconds away from crumbling under his feet.

Whatever. He shakes himself off, pulls it together, and checks his watch. He has just enough time to brush his teeth before he leaves, and then he grabs his wallet and heads out the door, not giving himself a chance to second guess going to this thing.

 

-o-

 

There's a difference between the kind of party his parents threw and  _this_  kind of party; a difference that is noticeable the moment Bucky's car pulls up out front of the building. The lights are blinding, there are ropes separating the press from the people entering the building, and the bodyguards out front are actually stopping and turning people away.

Bucky gets out of the car and doesn't look to the left or right until he's in the building. He's had his face in enough newspapers lately, and he'd rather there not be another one.

The party isn't on the main floor and Bucky is stuck getting in the elevator with other guests, trying not to hyperventilate at the thought of being trapped in a small metal box with a bunch of people he doesn't know. The confinement is bad enough on its own; being crammed in with someone's sweet smelling perfume, someone else's too loud voice— No matter what else happens tonight, it can't be worse than this.

Differences between the two parties don't stop at what happened outside. The party his parents threw was the type of party rich people throw to remind other people that they're rich. Beautiful rooms decorated with beautiful things, expensive food paired with expensive drinks, stuffy conversation and stuffier clothes. This is an entirely different world. The dresses are shorter, the music is louder, the drinks are rainbow coloured. This used to be Bucky's scene. He doesn't think it is anymore.

The masquerade theme is both the greatest and worst thing. No one looks at Bucky when he enters, and Bucky can't tell whose faces are hiding underneath the simple or outrageous masks his eyes pass over. With the lights dimmed and the music pounding, everyone blurs together. The only person who can show off at this party is Tony Stark himself; everyone else is just here to have a good time.

Bucky figures he'll find Tony and Pepper, say hello, and beg Steve to leave early.

Turns out that plan isn't as easy to execute as it sounds. The party spans the entire floor of the building and there're so many people in attendance that Bucky doubts he's accidentally bumped into the same person twice since he got here. Steve told him they'd meet at the party, but how the fuck are they going to do that when Bucky doesn't even know what room Steve is in, let alone  _where_  in that room?

He should not have come alone. This was such a bad idea. The elevator was bad enough and this isn't any easier. He tries to stick to the edges of the crowd but that pushes him closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and he takes one look out them and nearly throws up. They're so high up, and Bucky can't handle heights anymore, can't handle looking at the ground so far below him when he knows exactly what it feels like to plummet towards it with no way of stopping.

"Bucky?"

Bucky whirls around, glad the mask hides his probably manic-looking eyes, to find Clint standing behind him. The strobe lights flit over his face, lighting it up green, red, blue, pink, yellow. They do the same to his date's hair, turning it different colours before they pass and it settles on a familiar red.

When Steve said Natasha was covered in the date department, he failed to mention that she was going with Clint. Bucky doesn't know whether or not to be offended on Steve's behalf. It's not like Clint and Steve are all that close, and Natasha is her own woman, she can go out with whoever she wants, but still. There has to be some kind of rule being broken here, even if Steve said that he and Natasha went to Bucky's parents' party as friends and nothing more.

"Hey," Bucky says slowly. "I didn't know you two knew each other."

Clint looks a little confused. "Steve didn't mention it?"

"I have a feeling there's a lot Steve hasn't mentioned," Natasha says cryptically.

Bucky wants to ask what she means by that, exactly, but he figures he won't get an answer if he does. "Have you seen him?" he asks instead. "He told me he'd meet me here but I can't—"

"I didn't know what to get you," someone interrupts, carefully dodging an elbow as he makes his way around the crowd, three drinks balanced precariously in his hands, "so I let the bartender choose." He hands two of them off to Natasha and Clint. "I hope that's okay."

"This is perfect," Natasha says.

"This is  _pink_ ," Clint says. "And foaming."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Just drink it." She takes a sip of her drink and eyes the man who gave it to her. "Having fun yet?"

"I haven't decided," he says, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He looks more uncomfortable than Bucky feels, miraculously. "Is it hot in here? It feels really hot in here."

Concern flickers in Natasha's eyes, there and gone so fast he nearly misses it. "You don't have to stay," she says lowly. "If you want to leave early—"

The guy's eyes land on Bucky before she can finish, his lips parting in surprise. "Is he…?"

"Bucky," Clint supplies. "This is Bruce."

Honestly, all Bucky wants is to go look for Steve, but he's been smiling and politely shaking the hands of stranger his whole life. It's instinctual to force a grin onto his face, stick out his hand, say, "Nice to meet you."

Bruce returns the smile but doesn't take Bucky's hand. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

Should he? Bucky thinks back, tries to place Bruce to a company he might own, a business his father might've worked with, but he can't remember. Is he a lawyer? Or a doctor? His parents know a lot of people and Bucky is usually good at keeping track of them, but he can't, for the life of him, remember who Bruce is. "Um," he says awkwardly.

"Steve's never mentioned me?"

"Don't take it personally," Natasha tells him. "There's a lot Steve hasn't mentioned."

"Ah." What Natasha said seems to mean more to Bruce than it does to Bucky. "We work together," he explains.

"Oh," Bucky says. "That's— you know what, Steve probably has mentioned you, then. I'm a terrible listener. I must've forgotten."

Natasha scoffs at that, quiet enough that Bucky almost misses it, but Bruce smiles and plays along. "Maybe," he says. "But it was nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Yeah, you too," Bucky says quickly.

"Speaking of Steve," Natasha interrupts, her hand on Bruce's arm, now, though Clint's arm is around her waist. "I think I saw him at the bar. Was he still there when you were grabbing drinks?"

"Uh." Bruce looks between Bucky and Natasha, a crease between his eyebrows. "He might've been?"

"You should check there," Natasha suggests to Bucky. "It's quieter," she adds, "and the bar is lit up."

Bucky's shoulders sag with relief. That sounds worlds better than moving through the crowd, trying to pick Steve out of the hundreds of other people wearing masks. "Thanks," he says gratefully. "I'll see you—"

Behind them, someone drops a glass and it smashes, loud enough to be heard over the music. Bruce flinches. "Maybe this wasn't the greatest idea," he says.

Natasha puts a hand on his elbow, turning him away from the crowd, and mutters something in his hear that Bucky doesn't catch. She turns her back to Bucky and Clint follows them. Bucky takes that as his cue to go, but he finds himself looking over his shoulder at them until he can no longer see them through the crowd.

It takes Bucky a solid five minutes to find the bar. Wearing the suit feels like a bad idea, even if everyone else is dressed the same way. He can feel his dress shirt sticking to his back, can't breathe around the tight collar. Some people's masks cover their entire faces and Bucky has no idea how they can handle that. He feels like he's suffocating enough as it is.

Just as Natasha said, the bar is lit up and the music doesn't seem as loud. It's in its own little area at the back of the room, stretching along the wall, and it's stocked better than any club Bucky's ever been to, with two bartenders mixing drinks and handing them out, rapid fire, to the guests lining up.

Steve isn't anywhere to be seen. Bucky tugs a hand through his hair, looks around, still doesn't spot him. There's no way he'll be able to find Steve in the crowd, not before the night ends, and the only way Bucky is going through that again is if it's on his way to the elevator so he can leave. If he waits here, he tells himself, Steve will have to get a drink eventually. And maybe he'll pass Clint and Natasha and they'll tell him that they sent him over here.

He orders a drink to pass the time and checks his watch. It's two hours from midnight, and Bucky gives Steve an hour. If he's not here by then, Bucky is getting out of this place before the noise and the lights and the people closing in on him make him lose his mind.

 

-o-

 

He's on his third drink of the night, something blue that sticks his lips together after he sips at it, when a hand touches his back and someone leans in close, talking into Bucky's ear so they can be heard over the loud music: "Can I buy you a drink?"

Bucky is too irritated, his skin feeling tight and his head starting to ache, to deal with something like this right now. He turns around, eyes narrowed, ready to push some handsy, probably drunk asshole away, and does a double take at what he finds.

His gaze catches on the mask first, shining gold reflecting the lights dancing around the room, an intricate design set into it. Then the hair, neatly styled, a few shades off from the mask itself; blue eyes nearly hidden beneath the gold; that familiar mouth that Bucky's had too many dreams about to count. He has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, no tie on, and the top button of his dress shirt is undone, leaving it gaping open over his collar.

"I asked if I could buy you a drink," Steve says, louder. The music threatens to drown him out but he's leaning in close enough that Bucky can't miss him.

Bucky tries not to let Steve know how relieved he is that Steve is finally here. It's pathetic, the fact that he can't handle this scene anymore, that it feels like something's crawling under his skin and he jumps every time someone so much as brushes their arm against his. He's trying so desperately, all the time, to act like everything's okay, and he doesn't want Steve to know that it's not. Not tonight. Tonight is too important for Bucky to screw up with his goddamn issues.

"It's an open bar," Bucky points out, grinning wide to make up for the fact that it's not as genuine as it should be, "and I already have a drink."

Steve's smile falls from his lips. "Right. Of course you do."

Bucky frowns as Steve fidgets, looking uncomfortable, and notices that Steve's ears are red, something that only happens when he's embarrassed. "You okay?" Bucky asks, reaching out, hand resting on Steve's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Steve says tightly. "I'm just— Have you seen Natasha and Clint? They said they were coming tonight but I didn't spot them on my way over here."

Bucky's frown deepens. "She said she'd seen you over here at the bar."

"What?" Steve looks thrown, for a moment, but realization slowly dawns in his eyes. "She thinks she needs to help me."

"Help you with  _what_?"

"Dating." His ears get even redder. "I think that was her subtle way of making sure we were at the bar so I could offer to get you something to drink. She's been trying to set me up, and I appreciate it, but I'm not really interested."

"In dating," Bucky clarifies, mouth dry.

"In being set up," Steve corrects. He looks so nervous, his face pinched and his hands curled at his sides, but Steve has always been the type to fight through everything, even himself. As Bucky watches, he pulls back his shoulders, tilts his chin a bit, and determination hardens his face. "I'm interested in dating," he says firmly. "I'm  _definitely_  interested in dating."

Right. Of course he is. "Good," Bucky says, nodding stiffly. "Good for you, Steve."

"No, I meant  _you_. I'm interested in—" The music drowns out the last of Steve's words, but it can't drown out the pleading look in his eyes.

"What?" Bucky yells. "I can't hear you!"

It's too hard to talk like this, shouting at each other, fighting to be heard, and thankfully Steve leans in close again, his hand on Bucky's hip, his mouth close enough to Bucky' skin that he can feel the heat of Steve's breath. "When I asked you here tonight," he says, unaware of the way Bucky closes his eyes and leans into him, taking advantage of the situation, "I wasn't asking to come as  _friends._ I was asking you to come as my d—"

"Steve!"

Bucky has never seen Steve look so close to murder before, and that's including the time in high school when they found out someone snuck a camera into the girl's locker room. He turns around slowly, a fire blazing in his eyes, and Bucky curses when he realizes it's Tony Stark, his mask a metallic thing that doesn't seem to use any string or elastic to stay on his face.

"Tony," Steve says tightly. Underneath his own mask, Bucky thinks he's glaring.

"Am I interrupting something?" Tony asks, looking delighted.

Steve sighs, exasperated, and drops his hand from Bucky's hip. "Tony, this is Bucky," he says flatly, gesturing between the two of them. "Bucky, this is Tony."

"Your boss," Bucky says, just in case Steve has forgotten. Bucky hasn't actually had a job, ever, but he's pretty sure that glaring at your boss is a bad idea. Especially when he's hosting the party you're currently attending.

"Boss," Tony repeats, his grin growing wider by the second. He throws an arm over Steve's shoulder. "Right. That's me. Your boss. I'm your  _boss_." Steve's jaw clenches. "You know what? You're fired. Or— no, demoted. I'm demoting you. How do you feel about becoming my new assistant? And by assistant I mean 'person who makes me coffee and does basically everything I say, right when I say it'?"

Bucky's mouth falls open in surprise, something red-hot and protective bubbling up inside of him, but Tony laughs before he can do anything stupid. "I'm kidding," Tony assures him, yet Bucky is not at all placated. The way he looks at Steve makes Bucky want to step between the two of them. "I would never fire him. He's the best… what is it you do for my company, exactly?"

"Where's Pepper?" Steve asks instead of answering.

"She was talking to Romanoff last time I saw her… which reminds me. Can I get a white Russian?" he asks the bartender. Then, back to Steve: "And you realize that we've already met, right? But I'm glad he's here. I've been meaning to ask you something, Bucky. Does Steve really own boxers with the American flag on them, or is Natasha just screwing with me?"

The three drinks Bucky had before Steve showed up are not enough to handle this. There's something going on here, some kind of power trip that Bucky is caught in the middle of, but this seems to be just another one of those things that Steve hasn't mentioned.

"How would I know that?" Bucky asks.

Tony's grin is wicked. "I was under the impression that you would definitely know."

"It was nice seeing you, Tony," Steve loudly interjects, his hand wrapped around Bucky's wrist. He tugs gently, not hard enough that Bucky can't fight him, and Bucky allows himself to be dragged away from Tony and the bar. "I'm so sorry," he says when they're out of Tony's earshot.

"For giving your boss the impression that I've been through your underwear drawer? Why would you ever apologize for that?"

Steve winces. "I didn't— He's not  _just_  my boss."

"Really."

"We're sort of… friends. When he's not being like  _that,_  he's actually a good guy. Most of the time."

"You just didn't have time to mention it, right?"

There must be something in Bucky's tone because Steve pulls him into a corner, as far from the crowd of drunk people celebrating New Year's Eve by grinding on each other as they can get, and he sounds hushed and wary when he asks, "What do you mean by that?"

Bucky shrugs, like he doesn't care at all that Steve seems to have a whole other life that he hasn't mentioned to Bucky once in the time he's been back. "Nothing, Steve. Forget about it."

"Hey." Steve's body isn't blocking Bucky's way, not really, but it easily could if he wanted it to. "I'm sorry I didn't warn you that something like that might happen. I should've mentioned it."

"And Bruce?"

Steve looks startled. "You've met Bruce?"

"He was with Natasha and Clint. Who you also failed to mention are close enough that they'd come here tonight together, but I figure you knew or else you wouldn't've told me that Natasha already had a date."

Steve runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up like he's been electrocuted. "Having you mad at me was not part of the plan for the night," he sighs, looking guilty.

"I'm not  _mad_." Damn it. This isn't what Bucky pictured, either. "I'm not. I was gone for five years, Steve, but you weren't. You've been here. You have a life. I get that. And I wasn't in that life for a long damn time, so obviously I don't know every part of it. I'm frustrated because I should've been here, not because you forgot to mention a few things that happened while I was gone, okay?"

"You haven't mentioned a few things that happened while you were gone either," Steve says, almost too soft to be heard over the music.

He has Bucky there. "Guess we have a lot of catching up to do."

"We do," Steve agrees. "Too much to get through tonight, though, and I was kind of hoping— I thought maybe we could…"

"Could what?" Bucky asks, just because he likes to see Steve squirm.

"Dance. Or something."

"Or something?" Bucky teases. Steve doesn't look very amused. "I dunno, Steve. We might give people the wrong idea."

Steve's hand finds Bucky's, and Bucky almost flinches away in surprise as Steve's fingers fit into the spaces between Bucky's metal ones. If Steve realizes the mistake he's made, if he minds that he's accidentally grabbed Bucky's left hand and not the right, not the  _real_  one, he doesn't show it. He just squeezes and says, "Good."

"Good," Bucky echoes, a little shaky. "Let's dance, then. But if you step on my toes, Rogers, I swear I'll leave your ass on the dance floor."

"I took a few lessons while you were gone," Steve says, pulling Bucky a step away from the corner. "I'm not half-bad."

"I think I'll be the judge of that."

"You don't believe me?"

"You forgetting the fact that I've known you since we were kids? You've got no rhythm, Steve. Can't fix that with lessons. Either you're born with it, or you're not."

Instead of tugging Bucky towards the crowd of people dancing, Steve stays right where he is. He lifts their joined hands a bit, rests his other on Bucky's shoulder, and there's a challenge in the way he lifts his eyebrows, as if to say,  _your move_.

Steve isn't the only one who can be goaded by nothing more than a challenge alone, even without anything to win on the line. If Steve wants to do this, right here and right now, then they can do this. He steps closer to Steve, putting his freehand on Steve's back, and then he moves and Steve moves with him.

Bucky was teasing, just a bit, when he said he doubted Steve's dancing skills. He remembers watching Steve dance with Natasha, graceful in ways Steve never used to be, but it's still a bit of a shock when Steve takes the lead from Bucky, moving them around the small little space of the room they've claimed as their own, as if they're the only two in the whole universe. He doesn't step on Bucky's feet once.

"I can't believe we're waltzing to dubstep," Bucky mutters, his face hot from more than just the dancing. "The bass just dropped and a bunch of old, dead people are rolling around in their graves."

It's a joke, and he's expecting Steve to laugh, but Steve gets this serious look on his face, even with the mask on. "You're right," he says. "This is definitely wrong." He releases Bucky's hand, finally, in favor of closing the distance between their bodies, gripping Bucky's waist instead. "Better?"

There's nothing for Bucky to do but rest his chin on Steve's shoulder like they're at fucking prom and a slow song is playing. "Still ridiculous," Bucky says, "but better." Definitely better.

"I don't think I can dance like that," Steve admits, turning them so Bucky has a view of everyone else, their bodies moving faster than Steve and Bucky's, pressed even tighter than Bucky dares to press against Steve, all intensity and sweat-slicked limbs blurring together.

"Never too late to learn," Bucky says, drawing back just enough to put a hand on the center of Steve's chest. He boldly moves one of his legs between Steve's, rolls his hips forward a bit. "Push back," he guides, his other hand on the small of Steve's back, trying to pull his hips forward. "Move with me."

"Not as easy as it looks," Steve murmurs, but he tries. They're not really moving to the beat of the song playing, still in their own world, but Bucky doesn't care. It doesn't look like Steve does, either.

"Not as hard as it looks, either," Bucky says, breathless, as Steve's body moves against his.

"Keep doing that and it might get there."

It's exactly the kind of joke Bucky would've made, and it makes him blink twice before it settles in and he get what Steve is saying. Sometimes Bucky is violently reminded that Steve is not a prude. Not that he  _thinks_  Steve is a prude, because he doesn't, but occasionally Steve will come out of left field and make jokes like that, and Bucky is reminded of exactly why he doesn't think Steve Rogers is a prude.

"Jesus Christ," he laughs, turning his face into the crook of Steve's neck.

The longer they dance, the easier it is for Bucky to understand why he used to love things like this. The music doesn't seem so thundering and jolting when you're moving along with it, and if he closes his eyes the flashing lights blur behind his eyelids like memories of fireworks. He's still too hot in his suit, and he's glad they're off in their own little space, not stuck in the crowd with everyone else, but it's not so bad like this.

He's not sure how much time passes, but eventually his mouth starts to get dry and the heat of moving in his suit gets to be too much. Reluctantly— really fucking reluctantly— he pulls away from Steve and runs a hand through his hair.

"Are you going to let me buy you that drink now?" Steve asks, not looking nearly as embarrassed and nervous as he had the first time.

"Still an open bar, Steve."

"Shut up. I'm trying to be smooth here."

"I thought we agreed that you have no game."

"I have game."

"Did you leave it at home? Drop it on your way here?"

Steve gives him a flat look. "Are we getting drinks or not?"

"We're getting drinks," Bucky confirms, nudging Steve's shoulder with his own to tell Steve to lead the way. "But, uh." He hesitates, wondering if he's reading this all wrong and praying that he's not. "You don't have to be smooth with me, you know? I'm already there, Steve. I don't need any convincing."

Bucky wishes he could see Steve's eyes better through the mask. "Good to know," he says, unreadable, and then he leads the way, cutting through the crowd with an almost comical ease. Those shoulders aren't just pretty, Bucky thinks.

"Look who it is!" someone exclaims when they reach the bar, and that's all the warning Bucky has before Clint slips between him and Steve, throwing an arm over each of their shoulders. "Nat, look who it is."

"I see them," Natasha says patiently, laughter in her tone.

"Is he drunk?" Steve asks, equal parts amused and concerned.

"Never trust pink drinks," Clint advises. "Or anything with foam."

"I'll keep that in mind," Steve promises, carefully extracting Clint's arm. "You want a Coke?"

"Yeah," Bucky says. He doesn't need anything stronger than that, not after the drinks he's already had.

He tries not to laugh, he really does, but it's impossible when Clint pushes away from him in favor of nearly collapsing into Natasha, both arms around her waist. Up this close, with the light of the bar illuminating her, Bucky finds that her mask isn't solid black, like it looks to be. It's made up of intricate little spiderwebs, weaving their way around her face, framing her eyes. Her lips are red. She looks like she could kill someone with a smile, and Clint looks like he's five minutes away from trying to drunkenly walk through a McDonald's drive-thru to order fries.

"Where's Bruce?" he hears Steve asks as he watches the amusing scene unfold.

"Tony needed to talk to him," Natasha says, looking unbothered by the drunk man hanging off her. She grabs Clint's wrist, pushing up his sleeve so she can read the time on his watch. "It's almost midnight. He better hurry up."

"I didn't realize it was so late already," Steve admits. He hands a can of Coke off to Bucky, unscrewing the lid of his water.

"Time flies when you have a good dancing partner, doesn't it?" Natasha teases.

Steve's ears go red again. "You saw that?"

"It was adorable. You two are cute."

"Not so cute when you're the one driving them," Clint mutters, "and they flirt all over your backseat like you're not even there."

"We don't do that," Steve argues.

"You two do… do…" Clint frowns. "That."

Steve turns to laugh into Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky wonders when that started happening. When there stopped being boundaries between them. Only there never really were boundaries, were there? For as long as he can remember, they've been doing things like this. Lying side-by-side in bed, shoving at each other, kicking their feet up into each other's laps when they watch movies on the couch.

The hard part about trying to figure out if this is a date or not is that it feels the same as every other night they've gone out together, aside from the dancing. Maybe Steve looks at his mouth more, has gotten a little bit closer, but how much of that is real and how much of that is wishful thinking?

"Sorry," Bruce says, appearing beside Clint in the time it takes Steve to stop laughing into Bucky's shoulder. He seems just as unperturbed as Natasha does when Clint throws an arm over his shoulder and sags against him. "Tony wanted me to see something."

"Was he showing off again?"

"A little," Bruce admits, "but just wait." He looks at his watch. "Should be any minute now."

"Did he perfect indoor fireworks yet?" Clint asks, looking hopeful.

"For everyone's safety, I hope not."

"So you guys are all, uh, pretty friendly," Bucky realizes, gesturing between them all. "You guys. Tony Stark."

"We all go way back," Clint says.

Bucky frowns at that because— no. Clint and Steve acted like they didn't know each other when they first met. Bucky distinctly remembers introducing them, remembers… how odd it felt. Like there was something he was missing.

He looks to Steve, trying not to feel betrayed by yet another thing Steve has kept from him (only this time it was a straight up lie), but before Steve can look back, the room suddenly lights up and the music is cut off by a soft whirring sound.

From the ceiling, a handful of large screens descend, almost cutting the room in half. The sound of blaring music is replaced with  _screams_ , and the screens light up with what looks like Times Square, crowded with people waiting for the countdown to midnight to start.

"Like being there without actually having to be there," Bruce explains.

Bucky gets what he means. With the size of the screens and the way they seem to curl around the room, the sound surrounding them, it's like they're all standing in Times Square, too, only better because Bucky remembers the one year he dragged Steve there on New Year's, remembers the crowds and the shoving and how badly he regretted it when some drunken asshole nearly pushed Steve to the ground.

Before Bucky knows what's happening, everyone in the room starts chanting along with the people on the screen. _Ten, nine, eight_. Bucky looks to Steve, sees the light of the screen reflecting in his mask.  _Seven, six, five_. It hits Bucky, right then, what's about to happen. That, at the last party like this one he went to, Bucky had ended the countdown with some girl's lips on his, his tongue in her mouth, celebrating the new year with a kiss.  _Four, three, two_.

"One!"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Bucky sees Natasha and Clint both smack kisses to Bruce's cheeks, and the way he ducks his head, pleased but embarrassed. On the other side of the room, right beside the last of the screens, Tony and Pepper are wrapped in each other, like most of the people in the room. Bucky looks into Steve's eyes, thinks,  _if this is a date, kiss me_ , and then waits, and waits.

For a split second, Bucky thinks Steve might actually do it. His lips part, he leans in, and Bucky holds his breath.

The moment passes and everyone breaks apart. The music starts up again, the screens slowly ascending into wherever the fuck they came from, and Bucky tells himself he's not disappointed. He's not surprised. Two friends can go to a party together; two friends can dance together. Doesn't have to mean a damn thing.

"You want to get out of here?" Steve shouts over the music and the people still cheering.

"Fuck yeah," Bucky says, too relieved to dwell on the disappointment.

There're rules to New Year's Eve parties, from what Bucky's seen. Up until midnight, you pace yourself. Drink, sure, but never overdo it. The whole point of the night is to keep it together just until the ball drops, and then things get wild. What little inhibitions people have left are thrown to the wind, and Bucky can just imagine the scene of this place now that everyone's in full-on party mode. By the end of the night he figures there'll be security breaking up fights, people unconscious on the floor, couples hooking up right on the dance floor because they're too drunk to care and the masked theme allows them enough anonymity to do whatever they want.

Bucky is more than happy to get out of here before shit hits the fan.

"I'll call you later," Steve yells to Natasha before they leave.

"Be safe!" she calls after them.

"She meant that literally," Steve says as he leads the way to the elevator. "Not— not sexually. She wasn't telling us to wear protection, like it sounded. Not that we'll be in a situation where we'll need protection. That's not what she was implying. She says that all the time, I swear."

"Uh huh," Bucky says, amused. Looks like Nervous Steve is back again.

Steve seems to realize this, too, because he sighs and pulls himself together a bit, squaring his shoulders as he hits the button for the elevator. A few people watch them as they leave, disbelief on their faces, and Bucky can just imagine what they're thinking. Why would two people leave a party like this when it's just about to get good, if they're not going off to fuck?

Bucky lets them think what they want. He doesn't really care. And if Steve even notices anyone looking at them, he doesn't show it.

The elevator comes fast, sliding open, and Bucky gratefully steps into it, letting Steve hit the button for the main floor. It's brighter inside than the party had been, florescent lights almost blinding, but Bucky is glad for it. He takes off his mask, rubs around his eyes, and realizes that it's not just Steve's ears that are red. His flush starts somewhere under the mask, crawling down his cheeks and his neck, disappearing under the gaping collar of his shirt. Either he's sweltering, like Bucky, or something else is getting to him.

"Steve?" He still hasn't hit the button yet and there's a distant look in his eyes. "Earth to Steve?"

"What?" Steve jumps, startled. "Sorry, I—"

"You sure you only had water tonight?" Bucky chuckles, leaning over to hit the button.

"Yeah, I did." He gives Bucky a weird look. "What about you? You're not drunk, are you?"

"Why, worried you'll have to take care of me again?"

"Not exactly."

Bucky rolls his eyes and the elevator starts moving. "I'm not drunk. I was buzzed but it wore off while we were dancing."

"Good," Steve says, nodding to himself. "That's good."

"Yeah? Why is—?"

Steve isn't that much taller than Bucky, not really, but there's enough of a height difference that Steve has to gently grip Bucky's chin and tilt it upwards in order to fit their mouths together. Bucky is too surprised to even breathe. Behind his mask, Steve's eyes are squeezed closed; Bucky's eyes are wide open, his lips parted in shock. He can feel the firm, determined press of Steve's mouth against his, but his brain short circuits and he doesn't really understand what the fuck is happening until Steve draws back, wiping at his mouth with his thumb.

"No?" Steve asks. He looks guarded, unsure.

"What the— What the hell was that?" Bucky demands. His head is spinning. Did that— that happened, right? Steve just… He. They. What?  _What_?

"I meant to do that at midnight but I didn't want an audience," Steve explains, sounding resigned. "I wanted our first kiss to be just us, not us surrounded by a bunch of strangers, but… I'm sorry. That was a mistake. I shouldn't have done that. Just plant one on you without even—"

"Jesus Christ, Steve," Bucky mutters, and then he grabs a handful of Steve's shirt, not in the least bit mindful of how fragile the material is under his metal hand, and pulls him down into another kiss.

This time it's Steve that seems too surprised to process. Bucky kisses Steve with everything he's got, knowing it might be his only chance to do so. He kisses Steve like he's dreamt about it, imagined doing it a million times, because he has. Maybe not in an elevator, and maybe Steve was never wearing a mask, and maybe Bucky had kissed Steve back the first time instead of blanking out like an idiot, but he's wondered exactly what it would feel like if Steve kissed him too many time to count.

Steve is faster to react than Bucky had been. His hands come up, one pulling Bucky closer, the other sliding into Bucky's hair. His lips part, Steve's mask digs into Bucky's cheek, and Bucky wonders if Steve can taste the sticky blue drink from earlier on his tongue as it licks into Steve's mouth.

Steve is an unfairly good kisser. Where Bucky is frantic, still not sure this is real, Steve is slow and careful and thorough. His hand is gentle in Bucky's hair, cradling Bucky's head. He pulls back to breathe, and when he kisses Bucky again there's no sloppy brushing of tongues. He molds his mouth to Bucky's like he's trying to memorize the feel of it, runs his tongue along Bucky's bottom lip. He turns them around until Bucky's back is against the wall of the elevator, and his tongue curls slowly against Bucky's as Bucky loses the last of his mind that he had managed, up until this point, to keep together.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and Steve and Bucky break apart.

Steve's lips are wet and red. His shirt is stretched where Bucky had gripped it too tightly, the exact places Bucky's fingers had dug into it visible. Bucky is panting. He's having a hard time remembering which letters make up his name, and what order they go in.

Whatever nerves Steve had earlier, they seem to be gone now. His kiss-swollen lips spread into a wide smile, and he looks confident that Bucky won't say no when he suggests, "Come home with me."

Bucky snaps out of his daze. He strides past Steve and out of the elevator. Excitement makes him impatient, desperate to get back to Steve's  _now_  so they can continue what they were doing in the elevator, but he knows he probably looks pathetically eager. He tells himself to calm down and says over his shoulder, proud that he sounds teasing instead of shaken: "Really? That's all you got? 'Come home with me'? I thought you were trying to be smooth."

"I thought you said I didn't have to be," Steve reminds him, his legs easily moving him forward, catching up with Bucky in a handful of long strides.

"One kiss and you just expect me to go back to your place," Bucky scoffs, barely aware of the photographers still outside, slowly being dispersed by the drunk people walking by on their way from one bar to the next, one party to another. "You really don't have any game, Steve."

"I got you to kiss me, didn't I?"

"I've wanted to kiss you since we were twelve," Bucky blurts before he really realizes what he's saying. "That's got nothing to do with your non-existent game."

"What would you do, then, if you're so much better at this than me?"

Bucky waits, biding his time, until a cab pulls up. He turns Steve around, backing him up against it, and then he gives Steve the filthiest kiss he can manage, the distance between their bodies non-existent. It's messy, desperate, and Steve clings to him after a beat, groaning into Bucky's mouth like they're not outside and surrounded by people. And then Bucky pulls back, opens the door to the cab, and gestures for Steve to get in.

He does.

"That," Bucky says as he gets in on the opposite side, "is what I would do."

"So it counts as game when  _you_  kiss me and tell me to come home with you, but not when I do it?"

"I never asked you to come home with me," Bucky points out, "and that wasn't a kiss. It was a promise."

Steve gapes at him, his eyes lit up from all the lights outside, and Bucky feels a wave of heat rush over him at the look on Steve's face. For a moment there, Bucky was almost worried he screwed up. It's been so long since he's done anything like that, and even back before everything happened, Bucky wasn't the player everyone thought he was. Smooth, sure, but he rarely bothered to use that to his advantage. What was the point when the only person he really wanted was Steve?

Steve turns away from him and mutters his address to the cab driver, sounding more than a little breathless. Bucky takes that to mean he hasn't screwed up at all.

Still, if Steve was nervous before, Bucky is the nervous one now. The thing about wanting something for so long that you can't remember what it was like not to want it is that, once you get it, it's terrifying.

Bucky doesn't know what the hell to do. Best case scenario, he figured tonight might  _possibly_  be a date, and Steve might  _possibly_  kiss him. He didn't think that it would be like what happened in the elevator, and he didn't think Steve would be asking Bucky to come home with him, either. This is beyond anything he could've hoped for, and there's so much riding on this that one little screw up could ruin everything. There's a reason Bucky's never acted on his feelings before and that's because Steve's friendship is worth too much to him to risk. Now it's all on the line.

The only reason Bucky doesn't panic outright is because he's gotten far too good at hiding what he feels from everyone. When he was gone, letting them know that they got to him, that they were breaking him, wasn't something Bucky could do. They could lock him up, force him to do things, but he couldn't let them see what it did to him inside. And now that he's back, Bucky finds himself constantly pretending to be fine, to be just the same as he was when he left, and a lot of that means pushing away everything he's actually feeling.

And there's also the fact that Steve is in the same boat as him; his nervousness from earlier testifies to that. It's not like Bucky is the only one with something to lose, and that calms him a little, knowing that Steve had freaked out just as much as Bucky is now. Hell, Steve had been a wreck earlier, but they've made it this far. That's gotta count for something, right?

The cab pulls up in front of Steve's building and Bucky pays for it, ignoring Steve when he huffs and tries to hand over his bills instead. There's a drunk couple stumbling down the opposite side of the street, singing off-tune Christmas carols as they go, and Bucky's nerves give way to a smile.

It's cold outside but Bucky hardly notices the difference when they step into the warm building. Steve keeps throwing him looks over his shoulder as they make their way up the stairs, like he's expecting Bucky to disappear every time he looks away, so Bucky grabs his hand, lets Steve tug him the rest of the way to his apartment.

Bucky has to bite his bottom lip when Steve accidentally drops his keys while trying to get them in the door. He doesn't have it anymore together than Bucky does, and the embarrassed sound Steve makes as he bends down to pick the keys up is so endearing. Bucky really is so fucking gone for him it's almost sickening.

"You good?"

"I'm good," Steve confirms, a little tersely, as he slips the key into the lock. "Wait here for a minute."

Bucky raises his eyebrows and waits just inside the door while Steve disappears into the apartment, flicking on lights as he goes. "Cleaning up?" he calls. "You know I don't care if it's a mess in here, right?"

"My apartment's not a mess," Steve argues as he makes his way back down the hallway. "I was turning on the lights."

_Seems counterproductive_ , Bucky thinks, but he doesn't say it because he's not that presumptuous. Two kisses and going home together doesn't actually mean that Steve is going to jump into bed and take Bucky with him. That's not even what Bucky wants, anyway. Or— well, it's not the  _only_  thing he wants. He'd be lying if he said he didn't want it, pretty damn badly, but he'd be happy if Steve made a bed for him on the couch and they watched TV before they went to sleep.

Steve takes off his mask, laying it on the counter, and shrugs out of his jacket. "You want a drink?" he asks, heading for the fridge.

Bucky takes off his own jacket, hanging it up, and leans against the kitchen counter afterwards as Steve riffles through the fridge. "What do you have?"

"Water, and…" Steve pushes a few things around, bent over, while Bucky tries not to ogle his ass and does just that. "Water. Bottle or cup?"

"Romantic," Bucky mocks. He takes a bottle, uncaps the lid and knocks it against Steve's. "Cheers."

"Staying hydrated is important," Steve grumbles, taking a long sip of his water.

"I love it when you talk dirty to me."

"You know," Steve says, pausing to toss his empty bottle into the sink and wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand, "I thought kissing you would change things, but you're still such a jerk."

Bucky picks at the label on his bottle. "You want it to change things?"

"I want it to change some things."

"Like what?"

Steve licks his lips, looks at Bucky's mouth. "I want to be able to do it again."

"You see anyone trying to stop you?"

Steve shakes his head and takes a step forward, then another, until he can rest on the counter, one hand on either side of Bucky's body. He leans forward, bridging the gap between their lips, and kisses Bucky again with nowhere near the amount of filth Bucky had kissed him with earlier. The press of his mouth is firm and confident like he's never been so sure of something in his life. It's over too fast.

"That all?" Bucky asks, pretending not to be affected by such a quick, chaste kiss.

"Might like to hold your hand, too."

"Jeez, Steve, I don't know about that." Bucky smirks. "Going a little fast, I think."

Steve laughs, lips brushing a spot on Bucky's neck that makes him want to shiver. "Such a jerk," he mutters before kissing his way down Bucky's throat. He makes it just to the edge of Bucky's collar and then he jerks back, hands sliding off the counter. "Are you sure you want this?"

Bucky blinks at him. And then blinks some more. "You're really asking me that?"

Steve's face gets hard. "I'm your friend," he starts, and Bucky looks away, knowing this isn't going to be good. "After all you've been through you probably don't need me asking for more than that, and I don't want to take advantage of you, Buck. If— if what you need right now is  _just_  a friend, you gotta tell me. I'll back off, I swear. If this is something you're not ready for, I need to know."

Steve closes his mouth when he's done, like a performer dropping their microphone. He waits, giving Bucky time to process what he's just said, and Bucky snorts. Bucky snorts so hard Steve's eyebrows climb up towards his hairline. He looks wounded.

"Do you pay attention to  _anything_?" Bucky asks, and he can tell it's not at all what Steve is expecting by the way he takes a stumbling step backwards. Bucky moves after him. "You think I'd come home with you if I wasn't ready for whatever this is? What do I need to do to make you realize? Pay someone to write 'I LOVE YOU, STEVE ROGERS' in the sky for me? Because I'll do it, Steve. If that's what it takes, I'll do it right no—"

Steve's lips cut him off. It's probably a good thing. Bucky has no idea what the hell is making him blurt all this shit out, but he knows it's not smart. Knows that, if this does somehow go south, he's putting too many of his cards on the table and he can't even stop himself. It's like a dam's been broken and it's all pouring out of him, too many years of longing and aching to hold back any longer.

"I'd ask if you always talk this much," Steve says against Bucky's mouth, "but I know you do."

"Pretty sure it's your mouth always getting us into trouble."

And what a fucking mouth it is, too. Christ. Steve's always had nice lips, no one could ever say different, and Bucky can't resist digging his teeth into the bottom one and tugging. The sound Steve makes when he does is almost too much to handle, low and damn needy. It makes Bucky want so much all at once, and the only thing he can think of to do is grab Steve's ass and pull them closer together, as if there's really any room between their bodies as it is.

If there was ever any doubt about Steve wanting this— and there was, a lot— it dissolves when he tugs at Bucky's tie, not separating their lips for a second to do it. He pulls at it almost franticly, and Bucky has to push his hands away to get it undone himself. Steve tosses it away, not a single glance, and sucks on Bucky's tongue as he undoes the first button of Bucky's shirt.

"Bedroom," Bucky suggests, but Steve is too busy working Bucky out of his shirt, all of his concentration on the task at hand. "Steve?"

"Yeah, yeah, just—" Steve gets the next button off, starts on the third.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Single-fucking-minded, Steve Rogers. He doesn't even think before he bends down, gripping both of Steve's thighs in his hands, and hauls him up, Steve's legs automatically wrapping around his waist before they both topple over.

Steve pulls back, a look of astonishment on his face. It's not like Bucky hasn't carried him before, had to do it too many times to count when they were younger and Steve was hurt, or Steve was sick, only Steve had weighed less than a hundred pounds then. Now, Steve isn't exactly what you'd call  _small_ , or even  _average_. Steve is damn huge, and heavy to show for it, but Bucky is holding him up like he's still lighter than a sack of potatoes.

It shouldn't be possible, they both know this, but only Bucky knows why. He pretends to stumble, the way a normal person would, losing his footing and slamming Steve into the wall in the process. He's as gentle about it as he can be, and Steve's astonishment turns into something needy as Bucky sucks at his throat to distract him.

"Thought we were going to the— to the bedroom," Steve pants, head thrown back.

"Thought you weighed less," Bucky says, pulling back to appreciate the mark on Steve's skin. Red, the size of his mouth, a symbol of what they're doing.

Somehow, though Bucky doesn't know why, that mark puts it all into perspective. He did that. He did that to  _Steve_. Steve  _let him_. This is actually fucking happening. How is this actually happening?

Steve snaps him out of his daze, untangling his legs and falling to the floor. He pushes Bucky away from him, just enough to get away from the wall, and starts down the hallway, throwing Bucky a look over his shoulder that asks, ' _are you coming or not?'_

"Fuck," Bucky mutters, hurrying after him.

Steve's shirt is gone by the time Bucky makes it into his bedroom. He's so perfect Bucky is almost afraid to touch him. How long is this dream going to last before it disappears like smoke dissolving in the air? He can't be allowed to have this. In what fucking world does anyone, least of all him, deserve this?

"Are you taking off your shirt or am I?" Steve goads. His chest is smooth and flawless. Bucky can't even pick out each of his ribs, the way he could before, when Steve was all taught skin stretched over bones instead of muscle.

Bucky fumbles with his shirt buttons, glancing up at Steve every few seconds. It's a miracle his fingers don't slip and fumble when he realizes Steve is staring right back, his own hands twitching at his sides like he has to stop himself from batting Bucky's away and doing it himself. He's eager enough to make Bucky nervous again, and with the last button undone, Bucky hesitates, uncertain, looking at Steve's perfect body in all its glory. And then he shrugs the rest of the way out of his shirt before he can talk himself out of it.

Steve's eyes widen. Bucky doesn't miss it,  _can't_  miss it. His gaze catches on Bucky's arm, where the scarred and mutilated flesh meets smooth, flawless, deadly metal. No matter how good Bucky is at hiding what he's feeling, Steve is an open book, most of the time. His face twists, horror, shock, pain flitting over it in rapid succession. Bucky clenches his jaw and doesn't move.

Slowly, like he's approaching an animal that will spook if he moves too fast, Steve crosses the distance between them and, with one last look at Bucky, ducks down to press his lips to Bucky's shoulder. Bucky wishes he could feel it, really does, but his nerve endings there are all but dead, fried from the— from—

Steve keeps going, kissing his way down Bucky's chest. He has to bend his neck, moves to drop to his knees, but Bucky pushes him towards the bed before he can. "You first," he says, knowing exactly what Steve was about to do.

There's no way Bucky is letting this night end before he gets Steve's cock in his fucking mouth.

Steve laughs, falling onto the bed easily, propped up on his elbows with his legs dangling to the floor. "No complaints here," he says, his lips turned up in a smile that Bucky never wants to lose.

Bucky leans over him, capturing his mouth again as he tugs at Steve's belt. Steve is all too happy to help, kissing Bucky back so damn eagerly as they get his belt undone together, through the loops and out of the way enough to unbutton his pants. He should've known that Steve would be enthusiastic like this, all fervor and reckless abandon. Steve has never been one to hold back, ever, and this is apparently no exception.

"We in a rush?" Bucky teases, as if he's not panting harder than Steve already. "I'm not going anywhere, Steve."

Steve looks up at him, a shadow running over his face, gone in the time it takes Bucky to blink. "Not again," he says.

"Not again," Bucky echoes. "Promise."

Steve nods but he kisses Bucky like he's not all that convinced, and he doesn't wait for Bucky to push his pants down his hips and kick them off. He sits there on his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs, the material so tight Bucky can see the curving outline of his cock, and looks at Bucky with a mix of determination and desire, refusing to be embarrassed about being laid out naked on his bed with Bucky's eyes on him.

When Bucky doesn't instantly jump him, taking a moment to appreciate him instead, Steve's face slowly turns red again and he sits up, his stomach clenched tightly as he looks up into Bucky's eyes. "We don't have to go any farther," he says, taking Bucky's hesitance to mean he wants to stop. Which he doesn't. It'd take an army (or Steve asking him) to make Bucky stop right now.

Instead of saying that, Bucky drops to his knees on the floor at the end of the bed, leaning down to kiss at Steve's ankle. His calve muscles are as strong as the rest of him, and his toes curl as Bucky kisses his way up. He gets to Steve's knee and Steve jerks a little, laughing, and then to the inside of Steve's thigh, and he jumps, laughter fading into a groan.

Steve has propped himself up as best as he can, neck craning to watch as Bucky lazily makes his way over Steve's unnecessary briefs, mouthing at his length through them. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and he has this look in his eyes that Bucky has never seen before, but he prays he gets to see it again and again and again.

Hastily, like he can't take anymore teasing, Steve hooks his fingers under the waistband and pushes the briefs down his thighs. Not trusting the universe not to take this away from him, Bucky wastes no time, wrapping a hand around Steve's cock and bringing it to his lips while he still has the chance.

Steve falls back against the bed with a groan, his hands scrambling at the bedspread. "God, Buck," he says, and Bucky would laugh if any of this was at all funny, but it's not. It feels like Bucky is burning up, seconds away from combustion.

The salt of Steve's skin on his tongue makes his mouth water, and Bucky makes the mistake of trying to take too much of Steve in too fast. His lips spread around the head of Steve's cock, inching their way down, and he chokes when Steve bumps against the back of his throat sooner than he's expecting. He pulls back, breathing hard through his nose, but if Steve notices his blunder at all he definitely doesn't show it.

Bucky probably should've realized Steve would be unashamedly vocal, too, but he hadn't. The first time Steve moans— a true, genuine moan— Bucky has to reach down and get a grip on himself through his pants, a sound of his own rumbling up his throat. Steve's feet are planted flat on the floor, thighs trembling like he's trying to stop himself from fucking up into Bucky's mouth, and Bucky— he tries not to be too pleased with himself, he honestly does, but Steve is falling apart and it's all his doing, and, well…

He licks at the head of Steve's cock and jerks him fast with his hand, spit slicking the way. He drags his left hand up Steve's thigh, too, the cold metal such a contrast from the heat of their bodies that Steve twists the sheets in his hands.

"Fuck," Steve swears, the word ripped from his throat. "God, you're amazing. You're so…" He struggles to push himself back up on one hand, the other cupping Bucky's cheek, thumb sliding over his jaw. "Amazing."

Bucky pulls off him, leaving Steve's cock shiny with spit, and grins, a little smug, before he bends down to suck at Steve's ball. Steve's breath hitches, halts altogether, and Bucky can't resist bringing his hand down, brushing over that glorious ass, just barely slipping between the cheeks.

This time it's not a moan. It's higher than that, whinier. Steve  _keens_  and Bucky wonders how his heart is even pounding anymore because he's, like, pretty fucking sure all his blood is rushing south right now. Without thinking he slips two of his own fingers in his mouth, raising his eyebrows in a question that he doesn't get a chance to vocalize before Steve nods like a bobblehead stuck on the dash of a truck speeding down a bumpy dirt road.

"Yeah," Steve pleads, the length of his throat exposed as his chest heaves. "Please, just—  _Bucky_."

Bucky is the one not breathing as he eases a finger into Steve, watching his face the whole time for any signs of pain. Spit isn't great lube and he can't hurt Steve, he can't, but Steve pushes back against him, slack jawed, looking the farthest thing from pained that Bucky can think of.

It's unreal, watching the way Steve's body takes him in, seeing the look on Steve's face. With Steve's legs up around his shoulders, two fingers pushing into him, Bucky sucks Steve's cock into his mouth again and revels in the way his back arches. One of Steve's hands tangles in his hair, gripping it but not tugging, and Bucky curls his fingers.

"Buck—Bucky," Steve groans, loud enough that Bucky hopes the walls here are damn thick. He does it again, hitting that spot inside of Steve while Steve bumps against the back of his throat once more, and Steve sounds completely wrecked as he chokes out, "Gonna— just— you need to—"

Bucky pulls off him just before Steve comes, streaking his stomach with it. His entire body tenses with his orgasm until all of the energy seems to drain out of him at once and he lies there on the bed, still aside from the rise and fall of his chest, limbs spread carelessly and loose, no shame in being so naked and vulnerable and on display.

Not that there should be any shame in it. He's the most gorgeous thing Bucky has ever seen in his whole life. It leaves him speechless and a little overwhelmed.

Steve recovers before Bucky does, sitting up to drag Bucky onto the bed by the loops of his pants. He straddles Steve's waist, aware of the mess between them, and thinks  _this is a thirteen hundred dollar suit_  and thinks  _who the fuck cares_  as they kiss.

Bucky is a little impressed at how easily Steve gets Bucky's pants down his hips so soon after what just happened. Bucky himself would likely still be a mess, dragging in breaths and trying to collect himself, but that trademark Rogers determination is back as he wraps a hand around Bucky and works him over fast, grip tight, hungrily watching Bucky's face like he can't get enough, which doesn't— It doesn't make all that much sense to Bucky because he's still trying to grasp the fact that Steve wants him, while Steve is looking at him like he's wanted Bucky for a long damn time.

If he hadn't been on edge for the last half-hour, Bucky would be embarrassed by how quickly he comes. As it is, the fact that he didn't come in his pants twenty minutes ago is honestly a fucking achievement so he lets himself have this, buries his face in Steve's neck and breathes him in as his orgasm waves over him. All he can hear is his blood pounding in his ears.

He meant it when he said he'd be way more of a mess than Steve was after he came. He rolls off of Steve and onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, mind whirring and body completely wrung out. There's come dying on his stomach and he doesn't have the energy to give a shit yet.

Eventually Bucky manages to string coherent thoughts together again, and he realizes how quiet it is in the room. The silence stretches on, awkward, and Bucky starts to worry, the weight of what just happened settling heavily on his chest.

"So, uh." Steve clears his throat and Bucky tenses, expecting the worst. "Do you always make that face, during?"

Bucky reaches out and flings his arm over Steve's chest, smacking it lightly. "Shut up, asshole."

"I'm kidding." Steve leans over him, his dopey smile more subdued than it was earlier. "You're gorgeous. Even with the hair."

"You love my hair."

Steve runs his hands through it. "I might."

Bucky's smile is full of contentment. "We're disgusting," he says, "but I don't wanna move ever again. Ever."

"So don't." Steve kisses him, quick, and climbs out of bed. Bucky turns his head to watch him go, so fucking beautiful in every way imaginable, and Steve catches Bucky staring at his ass when he turns to add, "Don't put your clothes back on." He pauses. "Unless you want to. But don't. Please."

"Not moving," Bucky reminds him, finding it harder to open his eyes again with each blink.

"Good."

Steve is gone and back before Bucky can start to miss him, tossing Bucky a towel as he steps back into the room. Bucky cleans himself up as much as he can, knowing a shower would be the better option but point blank fucking refusing, and throws the towel on the floor when he's done, leaving it to be cleaned up in the morning.

"Turn off the light," Bucky says when he's done.

"We're not sleeping on top of the covers, Buck, come on."

"Not moving."

"Bucky."

"Shh."

Steve rolls his eyes, leaving the room again, and comes back with an extra blanket. Everything goes dark, nothing but the thin slivers of light fighting their way through the cracks in the curtains left to feebly illuminate the room, but Bucky doesn't mind at all. He can hear Steve's movements, knows he's beside the bed before it dips under his weight, and then a blanket settles over him and Steve's limbs tangle with his own.

"You asked me if I wanted things to change, earlier," Steve says, his clear voice cutting through the quiet.

"Yeah," Bucky says, struggling to stay awake long enough to listen. "I did."

"I don't think they can."

Bucky frowns, trying to see Steve's face in the dark.

"I think— I think we've been headed this way for a long time. I didn't just wake up and decide I want something more. It's been there for a while, waiting for us to finally do something about it. If this was going to change things, I think those changes would've happened a long time ago. I think they  _did_  happen a long time ago."

Bucky rests his head on Steve's chest instead of the pillow, sleepily considering those words. "Hmm," he hums. Steve might have a point. "Maybe you're right."

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

_He hates the training. Sometimes, for fun, they'll set so many men on Bucky that he can't move without running into one of them, and then they send him back to his cell or his room and don't even bother to lock the doors because they know he's too weak to move afterwards, bloodied and broken and exhausted. Sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, Bucky enjoys it, and that's when he hates it the most. When it scares him the most. When he walks away from the mat triumphant, hands bloodied, an unconscious body on the floor behind him._

_But he hates being called out of training more. The only time it's ever interrupted is when they want to_ do _things to him. When they want to examine him, stick him full of things, poke at him and record how he reacts. Or when they want to talk._

_Today, it's talking. They don't lead him to the lab, like they usually do. Instead they take him down a different hallway and the two armed guards at his side stay outside the door when they reach it._

_The room is small. No windows. Just a table, two chairs, the door. Bucky figures he can break one of the legs off the chair, use it as a weapon, but he won't get far. If he manages to take out the two guards— he can, he knows he can, but he'll have to kill them to do it— more will come. If he gets through them, it doesn't matter. There's no way out of the building without proper authorization. They made sure of that after the first time he escaped._

_And besides, the electric fences are more than enough to keep him from running again._

_The door opens and someone walks in. Bucky glares at him. He imagines smashing the man's head into the wall, over and over until it cracks like an egg and everything spills out. If the man can read any of this on Bucky's face, he doesn't show it, but he probably can't. Bucky isn't a person to him; he's incapable of thoughts. He's a tool. He's supposed to be a tool._

_He slides a folder over to Bucky. "Open it," he orders._

_Bucky does. He's a tool. He does what he's supposed to._

" _Study them," the man says as Bucky goes through the pages of photographs. He stops at one of them, the familiarity making his heart hurt, his eyes sting. "I want you to see their faces every time you close your eyes."_

_Bucky looks up. "Why?"_

_He can tell the question is a mistake. Displeasure twists the man's mouth and Bucky wonders what form the punishment will take this time. Extra time at the lab? Will they open all the doors and let him run again, just to see how far he gets before they can stop him? Maybe they'll starve him. He'd rather they beat him._

_Still, he gets an answer for his troubles. Maybe it's worth it._

" _You're going to kill them."_

_Or maybe it's not._

This time, Bucky doesn't wake up panting or screaming— he wakes up confused. He tries until his head throbs with an oncoming headache, but he can't remember. He can't remember the faces. He can't even remember the voice of the man who was talking to him. All the other dreams had been memories, so easily recalled if he tried, but this one isn't the same. This one is blurred, like he was wearing glasses that someone's fingerprints had smudged.  _He needs to remember_. He can't. He  _can't_.

Those blank spaces in his memory terrify him and he doesn't know what to do to fix them. There are  _things_  hidden in his head, and try as he might, he can't get to them.

Something beeps and Bucky tenses, alert. Beside him, the blankets shift and Steve rolls over, rubbing tiredly at his eyes even as he smiles. "Morning," he says, and Bucky puts the dream from his mind, his confusion and worries slipping farther away with the widening of Steve's grin.

"Hey," Bucky says. He holds his breath for a beat, waiting for this to slip away like the dream, but Steve's leg slides between his, nudging against him, and he can't still be asleep. He's not lucky enough to have dreams this good.

The fact that their mouths taste foul doesn't seem to bother either of them. Steve is kissing Bucky before he's opened his eyes all the way, and Bucky isn't moving to stop him. He's too busy tangling his hands in Steve's sleep-mused hair, too busy being reminded that they went to bed without clothes on.

Bucky has a lapful of Steve when the music erupts from Steve's phone on the bedside table, the familiar tune something that Bucky can't help but associate with Steve now whenever he hears it, which he never could've seen coming. Steve and the god damned Star-Spangled Banner. What the hell is that even about? He's going to make Steve tell him the story behind that one eventually.

Steve kisses him all the way through it, uncaring, his cock hardening against Bucky's hip. But then it starts up again, the music filling the room, a noisy interruption to the otherwise quiet and lazy morning. He rolls his eyes, reaching for the phone, and presses a few buttons before nearly dropping it on Bucky's chest.

"That explains the constant text messages," Steve mutters, falling onto his side. He hands Bucky the phone. "Natasha just sent me this. Twice. And I've gotten eleven other messages, two of which came from your mother."

Bucky takes the phone, turning it around so he can see what's on screen. And what he finds on the screen is a blurry, dark picture of him and Steve kissing against that cab last night, the snow falling around them. He scrolls down, finds text underneath, and reads the headline of  _Guess who's celebrating the New Year with a new relationship?_  with a sort of horrified curiosity.

He keeps scrolling and it gets even better. He doesn't know whether to be amused that someone would actually write an entire article about him and Steve making out, or horrified that someone would write an  _entire article about him and Steve making out_. "Guess that negates the 'should we tell people' conversation," he mutters, handing the phone back.

"Did you… not want to tell people?" Steve asks, carefully neutral.

"Is there something to tell?"

"Do you want there to be?"

"I asked you first."

"I asked you more recently."

"I thought you wanted to hold my hand and shit," Bucky says, jogging Steve's memory with a poke to the side that makes him squirm, like it always has. "Changing your mind?"

"I am  _now_ ," Steve whines, attempting to roll away from Bucky's tickling but all he does is wind up on his stomach with Bucky on his back, kissing between his shoulders. "There's something to tell," Steve says, wheezing a bit. "I want there to be something to tell."

Bucky grins against Steve's shoulders. He's never felt this warm and content in his life. "Yeah?" he says, making a path from one side of Steve's back to the other with his lips. There're goosebumps on Steve's arms.

"Yeah."

"Can we tell them after breakfast?" Bucky asks, and then, on cue, his stomach rumbles.

Steve tries to snort into the pillow but it doesn't really work. He rolls over, easily dislodging Bucky from his back, and slides out of bed. Suddenly breakfast doesn't seem very important, now with Steve standing naked in the early morning sunlight, shining a brighter gold than the mask he wore last night. He heads for his dresser and pulls out a pair of sweatpants, and Bucky makes a displeased sound.

"We're not cooking naked," Steve admonishes, tossing the sweatpants to Bucky. "That's a safety hazard, and a health one."

"Some things are worth it, though," Bucky says, appreciating the display of Steve's thighs before they're hidden underneath the soft, worn cotton of his gray sweats.

Bucky climbs out of bed and waits for his bubble of happiness to pop. There's only so long a good thing can last, right? But Steve kisses him again in the kitchen, like he feels the same as Bucky, like he can't help himself now that they've started. He opens the fridge and moves out of the way for Bucky to riffle through it, finding enough scraps to throw together an omelet, and the bubble somehow remains intact.

Steve gives up the kitchen to Bucky, sitting at the dining table instead, sketchbook in front of him as Bucky tosses things into the frying pan. Bucky used to be able to watch Steve draw for hours on end, hardly getting bored. He'd read on Steve's bed and Steve would sit at his desk, hunched over in a way that made Bucky want to rub his shoulders, so focused on his drawings that Bucky used to wonder if Steve sometimes forgot he was even there.

"What are you drawing?" Bucky asks, looking over shoulder.

"None of your business."

Bucky grins. "Is it my dick?"

"Wouldn't take this long if it was."

"I'm just going to remind you that I'm the one cooking your food right now."

Steve shuts the book, coming up behind Bucky to wrap his arms around Bucky's waist. "You can see it when it's finished," he says, his chin resting on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky pretends to be put out, rolling his eyes and huffing, but he's not. He's too busy getting caught up in how easy this is. Like Steve said last night, maybe they have been moving towards this forever. Maybe the other shoe  _isn't_  going to drop. Maybe this is just as simple as everything else about them, Steve and Bucky, fitting together just as easily as they always have.

Steve tries to steal food out of the frying pan and Bucky threatens to whack him with the spatula, wielding it like a weapon. Steve laughs, ducking out of his reach, and leans against the counter to watch him, a look of contentment on his face.

As he cooks, Steve picks up his mask from where he'd left it on the counter last night. "Can't believe those reporters could tell it was me in this thing," he mutters, brushing his fingers thoughtfully over the glinting gold.

Dubiously, Bucky takes the mask and slips it over Steve's face. He adjusts it so it sits just right, leans back, and says, "Yeah, I can't believe this flimsy piece of plastic didn't completely disguise you. You should definitely get your money back."

Steve makes a rude sound, leaning in for a kiss, but Bucky suddenly draws back as something flickers in his mind. He hadn't gotten that great of a look at the mask on Steve's face last night. He'd already had three drinks by the time Steve had shown up, and the lights at the party had been dimmed. The elevator had been bright, sure, but Bucky had been a little distracted by the fact that Steve was fucking kissing him. And by the time they made it back to Steve's apartment, Steve had taken the thing off.

Now, with the bright sun shining in through Steve's windows, Bucky gets a good look at it. Gets a good look at the way it frames Steve's eyes, and, more importantly, the way it brings his jaw and lips into focus. With the rest of his face covered, they're what Bucky's eyes go to first, and that same tug at his memories has him frowning.

Impulsively, Bucky reaches up, covering the rest of Steve's forehead and pushing back Steve's hair with his hands. He leaves them like that, curving over Steve's skull, everything covered now except the lower half of Steve's face.

He drops his hands and takes a step backwards.

"Bucky," Steve says, sounding worried. He slips off the mask, leaving it on the counter again, and tries to follow Bucky as he takes another step away.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me, Steve," Bucky snaps, shaking his head.

Bucky curses himself for not seeing it sooner. How the hell did he not realize? It'd always picked at him, the fact that Steve had never mentioned the Avengers, hadn't tried to throw on a suit to join them. Bunch of people running around is masks trying to save the city? That sounds exactly like the kind of stupid shit Steve would want to be a part of, and it made no sense to Bucky that he hadn't tried to be. And now he gets why.

No wonder Captain America hadn't met Bucky's eyes that day they fought together. Steve's eyes, through everything, are as familiar to Bucky as his own. No matter how big Steve gets, no matter how different he looks, the eyes are the same, and Bucky would've known him the moment their eyes locked.

Steve not answering his phone that day, that makes sense too. Coming to the door nearly naked. He'd probably just gotten home, stripped off his suit and ran to the door to meet Bucky, and gave some bullshit story about an exciting dream to explain the way he'd been panting like he just ran a marathon.

Bucky isn't fucking stupid, despite what Steve apparently thinks of him. That final piece of the puzzle slots into place, and Bucky realizes he's been staring at the other pieces without knowing he had them.  _Natasha_ , he thinks. It's her, isn't it? The Black Widow. And Steve's friend Sam? He'd sounded an awful lot like the Falcon, hadn't he? Tony— Tony had been weird last night, with Steve, and now Bucky gets it. Tony isn't Steve's boss, is he? That's a cover. That's an explanation for where Steve spends all his time, lying about being at work for Stark when in reality he's running around risking his fucking  _life_.

The Iron Man suit. Making something like that would take a load of genius and the money to back it up, and Tony Stark has both in spades.

What has Steve said to him since he's been back that hasn't been laced with lies? Betrayal slices through Bucky like a fucking knife, and it only gets worse when he realizes that Clint— Clint's been in on it, too. The two of them acting like they didn't even fucking know each other when they did; Clint disappearing that day when those mechanical birds attacked the city, playing it off with some excuse about getting food.

"When were you gonna tell me?" Bucky asks, barely a whisper. "Were you  _ever_  going to tell me?"

A sick sort of triumph washes over Bucky when Steve realizes what he's talking about. He can see the exact moment it happens, the way his expression crumples and he reaches for Bucky, his hand falling short when Bucky flinches away from him like Steve tried to slap him.

"Bucky," he says again, this time brokenly. "Buck, I—"

Bucky doesn't want to fucking hear it. He sees red, remembering everything he'd read all those weeks ago. Aliens. Armies. Jumping out of buildings, airplanes. Nearly five years of throwing himself in front of the greatest dangers he could find. This isn't schoolyard bullies or assholes that've had a little too much to drink. This isn't Steve getting a black eye and scraped knuckles and Bucky hauling his ass out of an alleyway before he can get seriously hurt. This is Steve risking his  _life_. This is Steve nearly fucking  _dying_ , over and over and over again, with apparently no regard for his own safety.

Bucky turns his back on Steve.

His shirt is lying on Steve's bedroom floor where they left it last night, and Bucky has the first two buttons done up before Steve reaches the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. "I couldn't tell you," he says, sounding pleading and determined, simultaneously. Apologetic but not regretful. "It's not just my secret to tell. I work with a team. If you know about me, it's not that hard to find out about everyone else."

"Nice," Bucky says, genuinely impressed. "Is that what you tell yourself every time you lie to me about it? Make you feel better, Steve?"

Steve's jaw clenches. Bucky can see his temper rising, knows he's poking at a sore wound. Good. He wants Steve to get mad. He wants Steve to yell at him. At least then Bucky can yell back without feeling guilty about it.

"Cute name, by the way," Bucky says as he finishes doing up his shirt. "Where the hell did you come up with that one, huh?  _Captain America_. That was the best you could do?"

"Stop."

"Or what? You'll throw your dinky little shield at me?" Bucky laughs.

"I didn't want to lie to you."

Bullshit, Bucky thinks. "But you did. Over, and over, and over again. Without even flinching. And here I thought I  _knew_  you, but if you can lie to me that fucking easily then I guess I don't."

"I'm not the only one hiding things," Steve says lowly. "You haven't told me anything since you've been back.  _Five years_ , Bucky, and you haven't said a  _thing_. But I'm the bad guy here? What about you? Who the hell knows what you did that whole time."

The thing about Steve is that he's genuinely the greatest person Bucky has ever met, but that fucking temper. It gets going and if you push, he snaps, and he says things he regrets later. Bucky can tell this is one of them, can see the momentary regret in Steve's eyes the second he says it, but he's too stubborn to take it back.

"Fuck you," Bucky spits. "That's different."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"Because you choose to put that fucking suit on and risk your stupid life!" Bucky shouts. He hates how good it feels to yell. "I didn't get a goddamn choice! I didn't hide it from you to protect some fucking secret identity; I did it to protect you from shit you can't handle!"

"I never asked you to protect me!"

Bucky's anger cracks and leaves absolutely nothing behind but an empty chill. "You're right," he says. "You didn't."

He shoulders past Steve and into the hallway, heading for the door.

"You're really going to leave things like this?" Steve calls after him.

"Like what?" Bucky yanks his jacket off the hanger in the closet. "I don't even know how thing are anymore, Steve. I don't even know who  _you_  are anymore."

"That's… that's not fair."

"So? What the hell is?"

"You know me."

"No, I don't. I thought I did, but I won't make that mistake again."

Steve doesn't follow him out the door. Bucky manages to get six blocks before Clint pulls up beside him, not saying a word as he waits for Bucky to get in. He knows Steve called him, knows for a fact, but he still gets into the car.

Weirdly enough, Clint's betrayal is more bearable. He lied, just as much as Steve, but he's not Bucky's best friend. He's not the one person in the world that Bucky thought he knew,  _really_  knew. It's not just that Steve's a fucking idiot and nearly getting himself killed on a weekly basis, it's that he didn't say a word about it. He went out of his way to lie to Bucky so many times that Bucky doesn't even know what's real anymore.

"You okay?" Clint hedges as they drive, eying Bucky in the rearview mirror.

Bucky doesn't answer. How should he know? Apparently he doesn't know a fucking thing.

 

-o-

 

Bucky ignores the phone almost every time it rings, Steve's name lighting up the screen. The only time he  _does_  answer is when it's his parents, and that's because they'll come over if he ignores them for too long. Steve knows better. He might not be a coward, he might not back down if Bucky yells at him, but he won't push Bucky if Bucky wants him to stay away.

Bucky needs him to stay away right now.

The more time he spends away from Steve, the calmer he gets. His anger is all but gone and in its place is regret and that same betrayal that doesn't want to go away. Bucky is a hypocrite, on some level, and he acknowledges this. He's self-aware enough to know that Steve probably didn't deserve any of that back there, but Bucky can't find it in himself to call and apologize.

It's just— Steve has been the one steady, constant thing through his whole life. His parents mean well and he loves them, he does, but they don't know him any better than he knows them. When you work as much as Bucky's parents do, there's not all that much time to spend with family, and that had never bothered him, not really. He understood. They were doing their best. And it was fine because Bucky had a life, he had friends, he had  _Steve_. Every shitty thing he's ever been through, it was Steve's shoulder that he cried on, no one else's.

It was bad enough, coming home and hardly recognizing Steve anymore, but that was physical. That didn't change who Steve was, but this? This does. The best friend Bucky left behind wouldn't have lied to him about something this big.

He doesn't see how he can look Steve in the eye and believe a single thing he says anymore, but as the days go by, passing in a blur of agitation and restless energy, Steve's calls come less and less frequently, and then they stop altogether.

That's not a good sign. That means Steve's no longer hurt by Bucky's actions— he's angry. Angry enough and too stubborn to keep trying when Bucky obviously doesn't want him too, only now that— Damn it, now that he's not calling, Bucky wishes he would. He still won't answer, mind you, but a stupid, selfish, self-obsessed part of him wants Steve to keep trying anyway. Wants to mean enough that he won't give up.

Three days after Steve's last phone call, Bucky's phone rings and he eyes it, knowing it's not his parents. Their calls are strictly during their lunch hours or just after dinner. There's no one else that has this number that gives a shit enough to call him, which means it has to be Steve again, trying one last time.

Bucky bites his lip, runs a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to pick it up. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," someone says back. Someone that is definitely not Steve.

Bucky pulls the phone away from his ear, eying the screen. He doesn't recognize the number or the  _S. Wilson_  he finds. "Who the hell is this?" he asks.

"Sam," the guy says, sounding unperturbed by Bucky's sharp tone. "Sam, uh, Wilson. Steve's friend? We met. Sort of."

"How'd you get my number?"

If this is how Steve wants to play it, he doesn't know Bucky anymore either. If he actually thinks that getting his  _friends_  to plead his case for him is going to make a difference, he's got another thing coming. This is such an uncharacteristically cowardice attempt at reconciliation that Bucky is actually a little shocked.

"Internet, man," Sam chuckles, like Bucky is supposed to believe that. "You can find anything on there."

"Why are you calling me?"

"I, uh. I know we haven't been  _formally_  introduced yet, but I was wondering if you wanted to get a bite to eat or something, maybe. There's this diner with the best waffles on—"

"I know where it is."

"Cool, cool. So how 'bout it? You, me, some subpar coffee and excellent waffles. We can talk."

Bucky chews the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed. "When?"

"An hour?"

Bucky grits his teeth. "Fine."

"Great! I'll see you there."

Bucky stares at the phone after he's hung up, wondering why the hell he agreed to that.

He knows why. It's that painful, desperate longing in his gut that says he misses Steve. Has been missing Steve for over a week. It's not fucking fair because he  _wants_  to be pissed at Steve. That's all he wants. But instead he's sitting here god damn miserable because, no matter how angry he is, he's always going to miss Steve when he's not around.

_Fucking pathetic_ , Bucky thinks, but he heads to his room and gets dressed anyway.

 

-o-

 

Steve is not, in fact, waiting at the diner with Sam to ambush Bucky, and Bucky can't tell if he's disappointed or relieved when he pushes open the door and steps out of the cold. The smell of bacon makes his stomach rumble and Sam is waiting for him at the exact same booth he and Steve had sat in what feels like so long ago. Once again, the diner is nearly empty. How the hell do they even stay in business?

Sam waves him over like he's worried Bucky won't recognize him or something, and Bucky pulls his hands out of his pockets and makes his way to the booth.

"Hey, man," Sam says as he sits down, extending his hand over the table. "Sam Wilson. Nice to formally meet you."

Bucky looks at Sam's hand and rests his elbows on the table. "Whatever Steve sent you here to tell me—"

"You really think Steve sent me here?" Sam asks, eyebrows raised. "That sound like something Steve would do?"

No, it doesn't. Steve is a lot of things but a coward isn't one of them. He wouldn't send someone to fight his battles for him, not even something like this, but then— what is Sam trying to do, exactly?

"Steve doesn't even know I'm here, actually," Sam admits, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head. "I don't think he'd appreciate it, either."

"Then why are you?"

Sam drops his arms and shrugs. He doesn't answer. "Bucky, right?" he asks instead. "Or is it James? Everybody else calls you James, but Steve calls you Bucky. I don't know if that's just a Steve thing or if that's what you prefer."

"Bucky is fine."

Sam nods and the waitress comes over, taking their orders. Bucky sticks with coffee; Sam gets waffles even though it's four in the afternoon.

"Look, man," Sam says when the waitress is gone, leaning onto the table with his hands folded in front of him, "I know what you're going through right now must not be easy. Your best friend drops a bomb on you and you feel betrayed by it, I get that. And you've probably got a lot of questions, too, but you can't even go to him about them because you're too damn stubborn—" Bucky opens his mouth to tell Sam that he doesn't know a damn thing, but Sam raises his hand and cuts him off. "Don't even try to tell me you're not. You don't get to be friends with Steve Rogers for as long as you've been without being at least a little stubborn yourself."

Bucky sips at his coffee, eyes narrowed, waiting for Sam to get to the point.

"So I figured, you know, I can help with some of that, at least. I can't tell you about the others because it's not my place and they're not my stories to tell, but if you've got some questions, I'll answer as many of them as I can."

"Why?" Bucky asks, suspicious.

"Because, the way I see it, the only person you could talk to this about is Steve. You could tell other people, sure, but I'm gonna bet that you won't because no matter how pissed off you are at the guy, you still care about him, so you're going to keep his secret. But if you can't talk to him about it, you can't really talk to anyone about it, and sometimes shit like that eats at you. I'm a firm believer that airing it all out, talking about it, can help most situations. So that's what I'm offering you. Someone to talk to."

"I could talk to Clint," Bucky points out.

"But you haven't," Sam counters. "I know you haven't, and I have a feeling that's because he lied to you too, right? And maybe you're not as pissed at him as you are at Steve, but you're still pissed."

Bucky's hands clench into fists under the table. "And why would I want to talk to _you_?"

"I don't know," Sam admits. "Maybe you don't. But if you  _do_ , you can."

Bucky glares at him for a moment longer, his annoyance ebbing into something more bearable. He sighs. Sam, at the end of the day, hasn't actually done anything wrong to Bucky. Like he said, Steve and Clint both lied to him. Sam, on the other hand, hasn't had a chance to yet. And maybe he'll take it now, give Bucky false answers, but he was right when he said Bucky must have questions and he's got nowhere else to go.

And there's also the fact that Sam has Steve's seal of approval, which means more to Bucky than it should, at the moment. If Steve trusts Sam, likes Sam, then— fuck it all to hell, that matters to Bucky.

"You fly," Bucky states. He's not going to start this by talking about Steve and looking more pathetic than he already knows he is, but Sam also said he wasn't going to talk about the others, so. It's as safe of a starting point as he can come up with.

"Sometimes." Sam cracks a grin. It's a nice one, Bucky thinks. "Served in the armed forces for years. Pararescue. That's where I got the wings. Thought they were the greatest thing to ever happen to me until my wingman got hit while we were in the air. Things weren't really the same after that."

Bucky swallows. "He…?"

"Yep." Sam shrugs, like it's not a big thing, but it is. Bucky can tell it is, and he doesn't really get why Sam is being so open about something that obviously pains, but then— maybe not everybody in the world is as guarded as Bucky is. Sam said that talking can help most situations, and maybe that's how he deals. By  _actually_  dealing instead of letting it fester inside of him. "Never thought I'd get in the air again after I finished serving, but life surprises you like that, I guess."

"Why did you?"

"Steve, mostly. Natasha. They were in a bad situation and they needed help. Figured that was as good a reason as any to get back in the air, and I guess I just— never stopped after that."

Bucky looks down at his drink, processing that, but he doesn't feel he has the right to go any deeper there. Not yet. Sam's told him more than he's earned and Bucky doesn't want to push, so he changes the subject. "How'd you and— How'd you meet Steve?"

"Jogging," Sam says. "We run the same route. Or I run it, anyway, and he passes me. All the damn time. That guy is an  _ass_. I mean, I love him to death, I do, but behind that boy-next-door smile is an asshole. I swear it was a game for him. He'd run right past me like some rich bastard— no offense— with a new Ferrari on a highway, just showing off. Totally showing off."

Bucky's lips twitch but he refuses to smile. The waitress returns, leaving Sam's plate in front of him and topping off their coffees, and when she leaves again, Sam's expression turns solemn.

"I care about Steve a lot," he says quietly. "You gotta know that, right? I mean, there's something about the guy that just— he makes you care."

"Yeah," Bucky says. He knows that.

"So you know where I'm coming from when I say it kills me to see him hurting."

"That's not my—"

"It's not your fault," Sam agrees. "I'm not trying to invalidate your feelings. You have every right to be hurt about this, you do. But you gotta see things from his perspective. He lost the two people he cared about most and he wasn't in a good place for long damn time. He can't have that happen again. He was trying to  _protect_  you."

"I don't need him to protect me." That's not how this is supposed to be. Bucky is the one who protects Steve, not the other way around.

"I'm sure he gets that, on some level, but when you love someone you do stupid things sometimes. And this life we live? It's not safe. We risk our lives all the damn time, and he didn't want you to be a part of it. He knew that if you knew, you wouldn't give him a choice. You'd follow him no matter what, and if something happened to you, it'd be his fault. Or that's how he'd see it, anyway."

"So he lied to me about it instead."

"You telling me you've never lied to someone to protect them from something?" Sam looks dubious. "I'm not saying that makes it okay, but what I  _am_  saying is that you'd have to be blind to think you don't mean the world to him, and this thing between you right now? It's tearing him apart."

Bucky presses his palms to his eyes, throat closing over. There should be some kind of satisfaction in knowing that Steve is just as torn up about this as Bucky is, but there's not. No matter how pissed he is, the thought of Steve hurting— the thought of being  _the reason_  Steve is hurting— kills him.

"I would've done the same," Bucky confesses, dropping his hands to his lap. "I would've lied to him too."

Sam grins. "Like I said: stupid shit happens when you care about people."

"Is he— he's okay, though?"

"You're his best friend and he thinks you hate him right now. What do you think?"

"I don't hate him."

"He'd make it pretty hard for you to. It's those damn eyes, right? I swear, making him upset is like kicking a puppy."

"A puppy that bites."

"And doesn't stop barking."

Bucky shakes his head, almost smiling. "That mouth always got him in so much trouble growing up."

"Growing up?" Sam says skeptically. "You say that like it doesn't still."

Okay, Bucky laughs, whatever. Sam is— he can see why Steve likes him. He's open and sincere and it's clear that he cares about Steve. The fact that he's even here right now proves that, and Bucky is glad. He's glad that Steve has someone like Sam in his life. Had someone like Sam in his life when Bucky couldn't be there for him, too. Sam makes Bucky feel more at ease than most people have, since he's been back, and he hasn't even really known the guy for an hour.

"You know," Sam says as he cuts into his food, "I'm probably not gonna eat all these waffles, if you're hungry."

"I don't think we're there yet."

"Yet," Sam repeats, pointing his fork at Bucky— something that would normally make Bucky tense, but for some reason it doesn't. "Soon, though. I like to get to waffle-sharing status with all my friends."

"We're friends now?"

"Might as well be. You're Steve's best friend; I'm also Steve's best friend. I don't see either of those things changing any time soon, so we might as well learn to like each other. But, uh, between the two of us? You might've been Steve's friend  _longer_ , but I've been his friend  _hotter_."

"That doesn't make any sense," Bucky laughs. "How you said it  _or_  how you meant it."

"Maybe I should call Steve and ask him who gets the Hot Best Friend award," Sam ribs. "Or, uh. Maybe you should call him."

Bucky lifts his mug. "I'll think about it," he says before taking another sip.

"Good." Sam's grin turns mischievous. "So tell me about Steve in high school. You've got embarrassing stories, right? You gotta have embarrassing stories."

Bucky smirks. "I might."


	10. Chapter 10

 

Despite everything Sam said, Bucky doesn't call Steve when he gets home. Or that night. He needs a bit of time to think things over, and he knows that if he calls Steve now, there's still enough hurt and anger there that they'll end up fighting again. He doesn't want to fight with Steve. He doesn't want to hurt Steve any more than he already has, so he waits.

The next morning he still hasn't made up his mind, but Steve makes the decision for him. He calls Bucky a little after nine, the phone ringing almost to the end before Bucky gives in and answers.

"Hey."

"Where are you?" Steve shouts in his ear, not at all the first thing Bucky thought Steve would say to him after nearly two weeks of avoiding each other. Or Bucky avoiding him, and Steve spitefully not calling anymore.

"What? I'm at home. Where are  _you_?"

"STAY THERE."

In the background, Bucky hears something explode. "What the fuck is going on?" he demands, his heart coming to a grinding halt.

"Nothing!" Steve yells.

"Right, so we're back to the lying."

Steve pauses as that sinks in. "I'm sorry," he groans. "Just— just stay home. Promise me. Promise me you'll stay home."

In his mind, Bucky sees the mask he wore to Tony's party, lying in his drawer where he'd hidden it after getting home that night. "Yeah," Bucky says. "Okay. I promise. I'll stay home."

"Good," Steve breathes, sounding unbearably relieved. "Good. I love you. I'll— I'll call you later. We'll talk. I have to go."

He doesn't wait for Bucky to reply. Bucky doubts he had the time to even make that phone call, let alone prolong it.

Bucky leaves his phone on the couch and heads to his room. It doesn't take him long to get ready, pulling on the best clothes he has for fighting, sliding the mask onto his face. He finds a pair of gloves, too, and leaves one off as he opens his laptop. It takes him no time to figure out what's going on, and where; it's just a matter of getting there.

Bucky pulls on the other glove and heads out the door. Steve isn't the only one who can lie.

 

-o-

Steve does not look happy to see Bucky when he shows up. In fact, he looks downright pissed.

 

Good. Bucky didn't come here to make him happy. Bucky came here because he wants to do this for  _himself_ — and because Steve has another thing fucking coming if he thinks Bucky is going to sit idly by while he risks his life.

The fight isn't a long one. Steve is furious the whole time but he fights at Bucky's back, never getting too far from him. He covers Bucky when he has to, trying his best to hide them both behind the shield, and Bucky shows him that he's wrong to think Bucky can't take care of himself like this. He's been trained to kill, after all; those are skills he can just as easily turn defensive, if he has to.

When the fight is over, Steve shoves Bucky. Hard. Any comradery there was during the fight dissolves, and Bucky realizes that this is it. This is weeks of anger and hurt, bubbling up and over. There's no way for either of them to hold it back any longer.

"You  _promise_?" Steve roars.

Bucky shoves back. "You can't tell me what to do!"

"Apparently someone should!"

"Real fucking rich, coming from the biggest dumbass I know!"

"Don't do this here," Natasha hisses as she stows her guns away, turning to look between the two of them. "Don't make this public. Some people don't trust us enough as it is; two members of the team fighting doesn't exactly boost morale."

Bucky glares at Steve; Steve glares right back. "Fine," Bucky spits. "Then where should we do this?"

"Headquarters," Steve says without breaking eye contact.

"Can I object to that?" Tony asks.

"No."

"Okay, but I'm going to. If you and your boyfriend want to have a little domestic, you're not breaking my building doing it."

"We're not going to fight," Steve says through gritted teeth, his hands unclenching. "We're going to talk about this. Like  _adults_."

"And what if I don't wanna talk to you, huh?"

Steve steps closer to him, the miniscule height difference seeming to get bigger and bigger. "I wasn't asking."

"You think you're intimidating?" Bucky laughs. He snatches Steve's shield out of his hand before Steve can blink, and, without hesitating, throws it away. "Now what?"

Steve's eyes narrow. "Real mature, Bucky."

"Says the grown man in a blue  _onesie_."

Steve's chest bumps against Bucky's but Sam comes between them before anything else can happen. He pushes them apart, standing in the middle of them, and says, "What the hell is wrong with you two?"

Bucky pants, itching for the fight to continue. Steve looks to feel the same way, about ready to shoulder Sam out of the way and take the first punch. Clint grabs Bucky's arm before either of them can move, dragging him away, and Bucky is so surprised by it that Clint manages to get him around the corner before he even realizes it's happening.

"Take a minute to breathe," Clint advises when Bucky tugs his arm away. "You don't want to go back there and fight him."

"You sure?" It feels like he does, actually.

"Yeah, I am."

Bucky glares at him for a moment, anger threatening to shift, but Clint hasn't done anything wrong and he knows it. And, without Steve's stupid face right in front of him, Bucky starts to calm down a little, breathing evening out as the moments pass.

" _Damn it_ ," he hisses. He sinks his metal fists into the wall before him, brick raining down, without even thinking. The entire arm whirrs, like it's reacting to that kind of blow, yet Bucky feels no pain, no  _anything_  aside from the echo of resistance and the way the blow reverberates through his body.

"Feel better?" Clint asks.

"No."

"Wouldn't've felt any better if that was his face, trust me."

"I know that," Bucky snaps.

"I don't think you did a minute ago."

Clint has a point but Bucky refuses to admit that out loud. Steve just— god, he gets under Bucky's skin. He's been under Bucky's skin for so long that he doesn't even notice it, half the time, but then he goes and does shit like this and Bucky is reminded time and time again of just how badly Steve Rogers can piss him off. Bucky loves him so much it  _aches,_  but that doesn't mean they don't fight. That doesn't mean this is the first time Bucky's wanted to wring his damn neck.

Admittedly, Steve and Bucky's fights have always been spectacular. They click so well that when the tables turn, it's bad. It's really bad. Bucky knows all too well how to push Steve's buttons until he blows up, and Steve can do the same to him without even trying.

But what just happened? That was a good thing, as much as Bucky feels like shit over it. Their fights never go beyond that. Now that they've hashed it out, screamed in each other's faces, they can start to fix this. Apologies always come after something like that, and Bucky'll probably cry, and Steve'll hold him close and tell him he's so, so fucking sorry, Buck, he didn't mean to be such an ass. They'll forgive each other, because it's what they do, and in a week it'll be like none of this ever happened.

It's just a matter of them getting their shit together, pushing aside their pride and actually apologizing.

"I can take you, if you want," Clint offers. "To our headquarters. If that's what we're calling it now."

Bucky nods. "Please."

"Kind of used to being your driver anyway, at this point," Clint jokes, bumping their shoulders together as they walk.

Bucky, because he can't help himself, gives Clint shit. "You're not off the hook yet, either, you know."

Clint balks a little. "I was just doing my job. I had no issue with Steve telling you. He said I couldn't."

"Way to throw my best friend under the bus."

"There's no way for me to win here, is there?"

Bucky grins at him. "Not really."

"Come on," Clint sighs. "I'm parked around here somewhere."

It takes them almost five minutes to find Clint's car. Bucky eyes him as they walk, a question forming in his mind that he waits until they're in the car to voice. "Are you actually a bodyguard?"

"That's pretty classified information," Clint says, laughing when Bucky snorts.

"So that's a no, then."

"Your parents really did hire me, if it's any consolation."

"My parents hired a  _bodyguard_. I'm supposed to believe they accidentally hired the only one who happens to double as a superhero?" Bucky snorts again, dubious, but then something else dawns on him. "Did Steve—?"

"No," Clint says quickly. "I mean, he knew, but only after I took the job. He didn't ask me to."

Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. He's not sure he could take it if he knew Steve had deliberately asked one of his friends to babysit Bucky. Not that he isn't still a little pissed that he let it happen, but at least he didn't  _make_  it happen. "Good," he says.

"I know that he, uh." Clint nervously taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "He screwed up. But he meant well. You know?"

"I know."

Clint nods. "Good." They fall silent again, for a moment, and then he adds: "So did I, by the way."

Bucky looks out the window so Clint can't see his reluctant smile. "I know."

They pull up to Stark Tower and Bucky isn't very surprised. It makes sense, given that Tony owns the entire building, for them to use it as their base of operations. Not exactly  _secretive_ , if someone figures out any of their identities, but logical nonetheless. And he figures that whatever it is that fucking  _superheroes_  need to train, Tony probably owns.

Clint parks and leads the way to the building, looking at ease as he crosses the glossy, perfectly clean floor as if he's not covered in dirt and soot and blood from the fight. They step into the elevator and Bucky gives him a quick once-over, making sure he's not actually hurt, and Clint catches him halfway through, eyebrows waggling.

"Steve know you wanna bone me?" he asks. Bucky shoves him into the wall. "Jarvis," Clint says afterwards. "Take us to Steve."

"Captain Rogers has denied Mr. Barnes access to that particular floor," an accented voice intones, ringing through the elevator.

"Can he do that?"

A pause. "Yes, it seems that he can, but Mr. Stark has overridden that order." The elevator moves.

"What the fuck was that?" Bucky demands.

"A.I.," Clint says, shrugging. "You get used to him."

When the shock passes, everything the A.I. said sinks in. "Steve doesn't want me up there."

Clint gives him a look. "Can you blame him? You stole his shield and threw it like a five year old."

It dawns on Bucky, as the elevator moves slowly, that he might be wrong. Maybe he and Steve  _haven't_  hashed it out yet, and he tenses his shoulders, preparing for another fight when the elevator stops and the doors open, revealing a large, spacious room with the same floor-to-ceiling windows as every other floor of this building he's been to, with a large couch, recliner and loveseat taking up the middle of it, a coffee table between them.

Natasha is sitting on the couch beside Bruce, her legs folded and her suit changed for a simple pair of dress pants and a blouse. Bruce is leaning into her, looking mildly concerned, with Thor taking up the recliner and Tony sprawled out on the couch, hands folded on his stomach. Sam is sitting on the arm of the recliner, and Steve is the only one not sitting. He's the only one still in his suit, too, aside from Thor, and he doesn't look any less pissed than he did when Clint dragged Bucky away.

"No," Steve says as the elevator door slides shut, his back to Bucky and Clint.

"Not really up to you, man," Sam says, so casual compared to Steve's stiff, barely repressed anger. "It's up to the team. You may be the Captain, but you don't call all the shots."

"It's too dangerous. No."

"If he can fight and wishes to, I do not see why we're even having this debate," Thor says, looking bored. "He has proven himself. I believe the choice should be his."

"So what if he can fight?" Steve snaps. Bucky isn't sure he even realizes he and Clint are here. "A lot of people can fight. That doesn't mean we're recruiting every person off the street who can throw a good punch."

Natasha's eyes slide over to Bucky, quickly, and then move back to Steve. "Not every person on the street has had the kind of enhancements he has," she says. "Do you honestly think someone could go missing for five years without Fury having it looked into? We've been monitoring him, and I've seen his medical records. We think they ejected him with a serum similar to the one that was given to you."

Bucky can hear his blood pounding in his ears. "What are you talking about?" he asks, but he already knows. They stuck him with enough things, things made him see stuff that wasn't there and affected his body, and he knows that what they did changed him. That he's stronger than he should be. Can handle pain better than any normal person should be capable of.

Steve whips around, startled, but he barely meets Bucky's eyes before looking back to Natasha. "It's not the same," he says. "He doesn't heal as quickly as I do."

"And he's clearly capable of getting drunk, too, which is something that doesn't work on you," Natasha points out, "but they  _did_  enhance him. You can't argue that. You've seen him move. It's not natural."

Steve is quiet for a moment. "He's stronger, too," he admits. "He, uh. He could lift me. Without a problem."

"And how do you know that, exactly?" Tony asks, sitting up with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Clint's nose wrinkles as he makes his way to the sofa, sitting down between Natasha and Bruce. "Don't answer that," he pleads.

"That," Natasha interrupts, gaining control of the conversation again, "coupled with the fact that they taught him to fight and gave him that arm, makes me think that they were interested in someone who could fight for them, without any regard for whether or not he lived through it. They were more concerned with his ability to get the job done than whether or not he'd survive it."

Steve looks as sick as Bucky feels. "All the more reason he shouldn't be allowed to join us," Steve says.

"Join you?"

"We're debating it," Tony says. "It's four to two right now."

"Make that five," Clint interjects. "Who else is on Steve's side?"

"I am," Natasha says bluntly. "I don't trust him. He won't even tell Steve what the people who took him wanted from him."

Betrayal rises inside him again. "You told her that?"

" _No_ , I—"

"He didn't," Natasha assures him. "I have your apartment bugged."

Somehow, that upsets him less. And, now that he thinks about it, isn't all that shocking, no matter how surprised and offended on his behalf Steve looks.

"I don't  _know_  what they wanted from me, okay?" Bucky blurts. "I can't remember."

"You can't remember?" Natasha looks doubtful.

"No, I can't. There're— there're things missing in my goddamn head. I can remember everything else, remember what they did and what they taught me, but I can't remember what it was for. It's just… blank. And I don't know how to fix it. Okay?"

Natasha thoughtfully tilts her head to the side. Everyone else is quiet, processing what he's said, and she's the first to speak again. "My vote stands," she says, not spitefully. She looks almost worried. "If he's telling the truth, that kind of tampering with his mind could unravel at a moment's notice. He could be programmed to attack when hearing certain words, or seeing certain images. For all we know, he's a time bomb waiting for the right opportunity to explode."

Bruce smiles sadly at her. "And he's the only one?"

Natasha flinches at that, almost imperceptivity. "That's not what I—"

"I know."

"Can I just say something?" Clint asks, not waiting for an answer. "The way I see it, he's going to keep running into fights whether we let him or not. I don't know if I'm the only one who notices this, but clearly he and Steve have something going on over there." Steve's face promptly goes red. "If Steve's involved, he's gonna keep getting involved too, and we all work better as a team. Right now, he's not part of the team and none of us know how to work with him or what he might be useful for. I say we let him train with us, at least."

Natasha looks interested in this idea. "I can agree to that," she says. "Most of our fights are public. It doesn't hurt to teach him how to be careful. Whoever taught him to fight didn't teach him how to limit the casualties. At the very least it could keep him from accidentally hurting someone. Steve?"

Steve opens his mouth and Bucky knows he's about to say no, but then he shuts it and gives it a bit of thought. "On one condition," he says, finally looking into Bucky's eyes. "You agree not to follow us into a fight until the rest of the team thinks you're ready."

"Fine," Bucky says. "Excluding you."

" _Fine_." Steve tugs at the collar of his shirt, frustrated. "I need to change."

Steve stomps towards the elevator, shield strapped to his back. Bucky hesitates, only long enough to hear Clint mutter, "Have you ever seen Steve that mad before? I've never seen Steve that mad," before he follows Steve into the elevator.

"Serum," Bucky says when the elevator doors close. "So much for 'I've been working out'."

"I never said that. You did. I just didn't argue."

"What the hell did they  _do_  to you?"

"A lot," Steve replies. Bucky thinks it's the first answer he's given in a while that hasn't been a boldface lie. "Can't get sick. Can't really get hurt. Can't get drunk. I heal fast, and I'm stronger than I used to be. I'm supposed to be a super-soldier, at peak physical condition. Everything that was wrong with me, they fixed. Everything that wasn't, they made better."

"There was nothing to fix," Bucky hisses.

"That's not true and you know it," Steve says unflinchingly. "I was weak, Buck. I got sick all the time. That can't happen now."

"How'd they do it?" Bucky asks instead of arguing that.

"You don't want to know the whole process."

"Was it dangerous?" Steve shrugs. " _How_  dangerous?"

"I knew the risks."

" _What_  risks?"

"It was experimental," Steve says, emotionless. Listing facts like he's reading from a book. "I was the first this version of the serum was used on. A number of things could've gone wrong. There was a chance it could've killed me in the process."

" _I'm_  gonna kill you," Bucky says, trying not to seethe.

"I'm not going to apologize for it," Steve tells him, defiant. "I've saved people. I wasn't— I couldn't save you, but I can—"

"Don't you dare tell me you did this for me," Bucky warns. "I swear to god, Steve, don't you fucking dare."

"It wasn't," Steve says quickly. "It wasn't. It was for  _me_ , and you can be pissed at me all you want for a lot of things, but this was a choice I made, for myself, and you have no right to be mad at me for that. I've done a lot of good since then and I don't regret any of it. If I can keep saving people, I'm never going to regret it."

"I can save people too," Bucky says, arms crossed tightly over his chest so he doesn't throttle Steve or, like, hug him or something, the way he really, really wants to.

Steve gives him a sideways look. "You're not serious about this. About joining us."

"What? Afraid I'll look better in tights than you?"

"They're not tights."

"They look like tights."

"You know, I do recall you mentioning that my ass looks great in these 'tights'."

That's not something Bucky can talk about right now. He knows exactly what he threw away when he stormed out that morning he learned Steve's secretive, knows that he won't ever get a chance at that again, and that's not something he wants to talk about with Steve, especially not when he's still uncertain as to whether or not he even wants to be talking to Steve at all.

Thankfully, the elevator comes to a stop and Bucky escapes, walking away without looking back. Just like that morning, Steve doesn't follow. Bucky is just as conflicted about it as he was last time, but at least today he knows that it won't be long until he sees Steve again.


	11. Chapter 11

 

Things are still tense the next morning when Clint drives Bucky over to the tower and leads him down below the main floor instead of up to one of the apartments. The entire floor is a gym, filled with every type of equipment a person could need, and some a person should never. There's a mat in one corner of the room, the walls around it padded in case someone gets thrown into one of them; there're machines for working out every piece of your body, from treadmills to weights that seem to go up higher than any other gym Bucky's been to.

There's a firing range. There're guns. There're bows and arrows.

"Now what?" Bucky asks, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket.

"Everyone wants to see what you can do," Natasha says, leaving the treadmill she was running on when they arrived behind. "And since there's still a bit of tension left between you and Steve, we might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"Why do you have to use  _that_  saying?" Clint wonders.

"Seriously," Sam echoes from the weight bench.

Bucky's gaze flickers across the room, landing on Steve. He's set up at a punching bag, wearing a familiar pair of sweatpants and a white tank top. Bucky can see the sweat glistening on his skin from here, the way his muscles shine in the florescent light. Bucky wishes he could stop being attractive for like, five minutes. That would be really great.

"You want me to fight him," Bucky guesses, still staring unabashedly.

"Scared?"

"Of  _Steve_?"

"Did he tell you about the time he took out an entire elevator of people?" Clint asks. "While  _in_  the elevator? With one hand basically tied behind his back?"

"Steve doesn't tell me anything, remember?"

Across the room, Steve stops punching and turns around to frown at Bucky. Did he hear that? From all the way over there?  _Everything that was wrong with me, they fixed. Everything that wasn't, they made better._  Huh. That's interesting. And nauseating, if Bucky thinks on it for too long.

Bucky isn't sure how good of an idea this is. Like Natasha said, there's still tension between them and, yeah, sure, they might get it out with a friendly scuffle, or they might end up actually hurting each other. It's like playing with fire. One minute you think you have it contained, and the next thing you know everything is up in flames.

Bucky doesn't want to hurt Steve.

"You two don't have to go first," Sam says, cutting through the tension easily with nothing but his calm tone and friendly smile as he leaves the weight bench behind. "Natasha?"

"I think I'll sit this one out," Natasha declines. She nods her head at Clint. "You?"

"I'll have a go," Clint says, holding out his fist. "Birds of a feather, man."

"Flock together," Sam finishes, pressing his fist against Clint's. "Someone might want to tell the newbie the rules."

"I thought  _you_  were the newbie," Clint says as they make their way to the mat.

"Not anymore."

"Everyone stays ten feet from the mat," Natasha explains, following after them. "No holding back. The fight ends when someone's been pinned three times or they forfeit."

"What if somebody gets hurt?"

"Most things go," Natasha says carelessly, "but anything too dirty is considered a pin on you, so I'd stay away from scratching or aiming below the belt."

Natasha walks him to the invisible ten-foot line and they watch as Sam and Clint shake hands and then circle each other. It's a slow fight, the two pretty evenly matched. From what Bucky's seen, neither of their strengths is in hand-to-hand combat. They can both fight, much better than most people and with a kind of skill that says they do it often and do it well, but Clint favors a bow and arrow and Sam fights from the air. Neither of those is applicable here.

Clint gets the first pin on Sam and offers him a hand up, and Sam gets the next one on him.

Bucky feels Steve's presence but refuses to turn around as he joins them. Not that Steve acknowledges him, either. He stands on Natasha's other side, her body separating them, and Bucky almost wants to yell at him just so he'll finally look Bucky in the god damn eyes. But he doesn't. He's not  _that_  desperate for Steve's attention. Or that's what he tells himself, anyway.

"They're really fighting claw and beak," Steve says, nudging Natasha with his elbow.

"This could be anyone's flight," she agrees.

Clint manages to sweep Sam's legs out from under him and he goes down, hard. "Ouch," Steve says, wincing in sympathy. "That didn't look pheasant."

"Will you two shut the hell up?" Sam shouts from the mat, climbing back to his feet. "The bird puns are getting pretty old."

Natasha smirks. "Duck," she says.

"Really? That wasn't even a pun, you just—"

Clint tackles Sam again, pinning him for a third time. "I told you to duck," Natasha says, looking smug.

"That's cheating!" Sam cries, indignant. "Blatant favoritism!"

"Are we next?" Steve asks, ignoring him, still not looking at Bucky.

"It's up to the two of you."

Steve shrugs, walking to the mat as Clint pulls Sam to his feet. He stands there and crosses his arms over his chest, a move that should be intimidating, what with the way it makes his arm muscles bulge, his shoulders look impossibly wider. All it does is make Bucky want to jump him.

Fuck it, he thinks. He unzips his jacket and drops it on the floor, kicking off his shoes before he joins Steve on the mat.

Steve looks a little surprised, like he honestly thought Bucky would say no and back down. That look hardens over fast, though, turning into an indifference that makes Bucky want to jump him for entirely different reasons. He hates this so much, hates fighting with Steve and Steve looking right through him, but at this point he's not sure what to do to fix it. And why the hell is it up to him to do it, anyway? Steve's fucked up just as much as Bucky has, if not more.

"Ready?" Steve asks, goading Bucky with the quirk of an eyebrow.

Bucky doesn't answer. He glares instead.

"You know," Sam says behind them, "I'm thinking this might be a bad idea."

Steve moves carefully, just a single step forward, and Bucky mirrors him, taking one back. When Steve lifts his arm, a move that's probably more effective when he has his shield, Bucky watches the way his legs shift, seeing the move for the distraction it is, jumping backwards when Steve suddenly pounces forward.

The fight— if it can be called that— continues like this for a while. Bucky knows Steve too well to be caught off guard by anything Steve does, and vice versa. Every time Bucky moves, Steve moves back. Every time Steve attempts to attack him, Bucky dodges it.

"I know you're mad," Steve says, too low for the others to hear.

Bucky half-heartedly swings at him, missing Steve by inches. "You figure that one out all by yourself?"

Obviously Steve was hoping that Bucky would be a little less of an asshole. He thought wrong, and he doesn't look too happy about it. "I called you and tried to fix it. You wouldn't even give me the time of day."

"Because you  _lied_  to me."

Steve gets close enough to push him and Bucky stands his ground this time. "I'm  _sorry_ ," Steve snaps as his hands connect with Bucky's chest.

"You should be!" Bucky spits, pushing back.

Steve tackles Bucky to the ground but Bucky doesn't go easily. He fights back, getting his knees up between their bodies. "You're the last person in the world I want to hurt," Steve says before Bucky kicks him away, the two of them jumping to their feet the moment they're separated.

"Too late for that," Bucky tells him. He tries rush Steve, aiming for his waist because he's top heavy, those beautiful fucking shoulders so much wider than his waist, but Steve plants his feet and Bucky gets a taste of just how strong he is. It takes all of Bucky's strength to try and get him off balance, but Steve grabs his arm before he can, twisting around in a move so graceful his hulking body shouldn't be capable of it.

Bucky hisses in pain at the arm pinned behind his back, trying to fight against it as Steve attempts to force him to the floor. "I'm trying— to apologize!" he shouts at Bucky as he does, exertion leaving him breathless.

"I don't want your damn apology!" Bucky shouts back, dropping all of his weight too suddenly for Steve to react. They both go down, Steve's surprise giving Bucky the opportunity he needs to pin Steve to the ground, settling on top of him in a way that makes it difficult for Steve to get him off. "I want things to go back to the way they were," he confesses, quieter.

Steve blinks up at him, the angry twist of his mouth softening. "They can't," he says.

"I know that," Bucky mutters. He feels like he's hitting his head against a wall.  _He knows that_. "I  _do_ ," Bucky swears, his fingers curling in the front of Steve's shirt. He can feel Steve's heartbeat underneath the fingertips of his right hand, steady and fast. "I'm just— I'm having a hard time handling it, okay? Doesn't really help when the one person I trust more than anyone has been lying to me the entire time I've been back."

Steve closes his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry I am, Buck, and I'll— Whatever it takes to fix it, I'll do it, but you gotta tell me because I don't  _know_  and I—"

"But I get why you did it."

His eyes flit back open. The hope in them makes Bucky's heart ache. "You do?"

"Yeah, dumbass, you think I wouldn't've done the same thing?"

Steve hesitates, as if waiting for Bucky to change his mind and start yelling again, and Bucky's stomach clenches. He never should've done this, never should've made Steve feel like this. But then, slowly, Steve starts to grin. "You would," he agrees. "You  _have_. Remember in ninth grade how you told me you'd meet me at my place after school instead of walking home with me because you had to talk to one of your teachers? But really you were meeting Tommy Howard to fight because you kissed his girlfriend."

"I never really kissed his girlfriend, actually," Bucky admits. "She said I did and I went with it because, I don't know." Bucky shrugs. "Figured it couldn't hurt my reputation for people to think I was macking on the hottest girl in school."

"And you call  _me_  a dumbass."

"Because you are a dumbass, dumbass. For someone so damn smart you do a lot of dumb shit, Steve."

"You're the one who's best friends with a dumbass, so what does that make you?"

"Desperate."

Steve laughs, trying to shove Bucky off him, but Bucky refuses to move. "Come on, we're supposed to be fighting."

"Yeah, and I win if you forfeit, right?"

Steve looks worried all of a sudden. "That's not exactly how it—"

Bucky tickles him, knowing exactly where to drag his fingers to make Steve squirm and whine and cry out, and Steve knows that he knows. He doesn't even give Bucky a chance. "I give, I give!" he cries before Bucky can really start on him. He's already writhing on the mat beneath Bucky, trying to get away. "You win! Stop!"

Bucky climbs off him, triumphant, and offers him a hand up. Steve bats it away with a glare but he can't fight off the smile on his face.

The moment Steve is on his feet, he drags Bucky into a hug. "I really am sorry," he says. "For everything. It won't happen again."

"Better not," Bucky says, a hand on Steve's back and the other in his hair, holding him close, not ready to let go yet. The exhaustion of fighting with Steve— mentally, not physically— seems to take its toll all at once, weighing down too heavily for him to carry alone. He grips Steve tighter, clinging pathetically, and Steve holds on just as tightly.

Bucky closes his eyes before he starts to cry, and Steve rubs soothing circles against his back, muttering, "So sorry, Buck, I'm so sorry," and "I hate fighting with you, you know that, right? I fucking hate it."

"Okay, what just happened?" Bucky hears Clint ask, and he's violently reminded that they're not alone.

Bucky pulls back, sniffling once before getting himself together. "Good fight," he says to Steve, simultaneously gruff and mocking.

"He— Did he just tickle Steve into forfeiting?" Sam asks. "Is that cheating?"

Natasha shrugs. "No holding back. There's nothing in the rules that says he can't do that."

"I thought the point was to see how he fights so we can figure out what to do with him," Clint reminds them all.

"We can go again," Steve offers, looking a little into the idea. He eyes Bucky sideways, cheeks flushed beautifully, and Bucky nods along, definitely agreeable.

"No," Natasha says with a shake of her head. "There's no point. They'll both hold back." She tugs an elastic off her wrist, neatly trying back her red hair with a twist of her hands. "I'll go."

She can't be serious. "No way," Bucky says. "No offense, but I don't want to hurt you."

Natasha raises her eyebrows, offense clearly taken, but it's Steve who laughs and says, "We've all fought her. Trust me, she can handle it."

"But—"

Before Bucky can finish, his back hits the mat and Natasha looks down at him, her expression carefully blank. "One pin for me," she announces before standing up again.

It's not that his pride is wounded because he was taken down by a girl. Every woman Bucky's ever met has had her own kind of strength, whether it's his mother's cool commanding that's helped her and his father lead a billion dollar company, the kind that doesn't take no for an answer and refuses to be belittled, or Steve's mom's determination and unwavering kindness even after a hard life of trying to keep things together for her and Steve, all by herself. He knows better than to underestimate people, no matter  _what_  gender they are.

Bucky's pride is wounded because he was taken down.  _Period_.

"That won't happen again," he tells her.

She doesn't argue. Instead she pulls another elastic off her wrist and holds it out to him. "Keeps your hair out of the way," she says. "You won't be at the top of your game if your vision is obstructed."

Bucky frowns at the thing in her hand, not sure what to do with it, but he picks it up, stretching the band between his fingers. He's never, not once in his life, worn a hairband, but he's done his sisters' hair before school too many times to count, and he knows how to use it. He gathers up his hair, twists the elastic into place, and his head feels weirdly light when he's done, the back of his neck cold.

"It suits you," Natasha says. And then she lunges for him.

 

-o-

 

Bucky wins the fight against Natasha, barely. It's been a while since he's had competition like her and he's rusty enough that it's a close thing. With Steve, neither of them had really tried. With her, it's ruthless.

He gets to watch Steve fight Clint, too, which is… interesting. Bucky knows, in the back of his mind, that he shouldn't be turned on by Steve throwing a punch, but with the danger of the situation eliminated and Steve grinning the whole time, he can't really help himself. It's Clint; Bucky doesn't have to worry about Steve getting seriously hurt when it's nothing more than a friendly scuffle, and it gives him a chance to sit back and observe the strength and grace of Steve's body.

Natasha's curious about his gun skills and Bucky has no qualms about giving a demonstration. She hands him gun after gun, with Steve, Clint and Sam standing behind them, and watches as he unloads each clip into the targets provided. It's methodical, the way he does it. The guns feel more than familiar in his hands and he's capable with them, has to be after the training he's had, but he feels detached the entire time. It's something he can do; doesn't mean he likes it.

Steve doesn't like it either. He gets shifty about it when he thinks Bucky isn't watching him, lips tugged down in disproval, hands tightly fisted at his sides. He watches Bucky's hands as he reloads the gun, aims it, pulls the trigger, looking sick to his stomach all the while.

It turns into a game when Natasha picks up her own gun and raises an eyebrow. She's good— great, even. She's faster than him, already swiftly reloading her pistol in the time it takes Bucky to hit all his targets, but Bucky has slightly better accuracy. They balance each other out.

And then Clint picks up his bow and they're both outmatched. Bucky is a great shooter and Natasha is more than his equal, but he can admit when someone is more skilled than him. Clint does things with a bow that shouldn't even be possible, which is hilarious, considering the fact that most of his clothes have stains on them and one time Bucky watched him trip over a crack in the sidewalk.

By the time Bucky and Steve leave, Bucky is pleasantly exhausted. He'd had reservations, going into this, worried that Steve's friends might want to poke at him and monitor him, test him and write down the results, the way  _they_  had, but it wasn't like that. This wasn't so much a test to see what parts of him are useful to them, this was more— team bonding. The others getting a feel for what he can do.

Natasha said she doesn't trust him but Bucky thinks she's warming up. Sam was as friendly as he's been since Bucky met him, and Bucky already considers Clint a friend. The only person who  _didn't_  seem very enthusiastic about Bucky being there was Steve, even after they made up. And now, in the elevator, he can feel Steve's eyes on him, scrutinizing and distracting and questioning, but he waits until they're in Bucky's apartment to ask.

"The guns," he says as Bucky locks the door behind them. He didn't invite Steve to come here with him, but he didn't tell Steve to leave him alone either. That talk on the mat wasn't enough. There's still a lot to work through, a lot that needs to be said, and of course Steve won't let it wait. They have to do this now. "Where did you learn that?"

"Where do you think?" Bucky busies himself with the coffee machine, needing something to do with his hands.

Steve's face contorts in confliction. "They weren't training you to fight, they were— they were training you to—"

"To kill," Bucky supplies, blunt. No point to beat around the bush.

Steve sucks in a harsh breath. "But you haven't."

"I've tried."

Steve tries not to look horrified, he does, but Bucky can see it in his eyes anyway. "You're not a killer, Buck."

"Only 'cause I didn't have the time to finish it." He closes his eyes and he can see the blood. This isn't something he wants to remember, let alone talk about, but if Steve has to be honest, it's only fair that Bucky stops keeping things from him too. "I was trying to escape and I— I didn't have a fucking  _choice_. You don't know what it was like, Steve, you don't  _know_. I had to— I  _had_  to get out of there, and I tried and—"

"Hey, hey." Steve's arms are around him before he even notices Steve getting closer. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Bucky hisses into his shoulder, feeling himself unravel suddenly, with no way to stop it. "It's not all there, Steve, I'm— I'm missing things. I can't remember. They got inside my head and made me do things, made me forget things. Important things. I can't remember and I know I need to but I  _can't_  and I'm—" He swallows back the word  _scared_ , can't admit that, not even to Steve. "I remember the worst parts. I remember  _all of it_ , but not the things I  _need_  to remember. Not the things that could help."

Steve manages to get Bucky to the couch just in time for his legs to give out. He sinks down onto it and puts his head in his hands before it cracks apart, trying to keep it together and failing miserably. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to fall apart in front of anyone, let alone Steve, but he can't seem to stop it. It's like Steve accidentally hit a switch and everything Bucky was trying to hold back for so long— so damn long— threatens to spill out.

"We'll figure it out," Steve promises, his hand finding Bucky's, squeezing tight. "We'll figure it out, and we'll find them. I promise you." He squeezes harder. "Okay?"

"Okay," Bucky says, sounding so pathetically brittle that he hates himself for it.

"We'll work through this together, if you want to. You don't have to, but—"

"No," Bucky says. "No, I want to." He needs to, maybe. "I want to tell you."

Steve nods. There's something hard in his tone, a steeliness that chills Bucky a bit when he says, "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

Bucky lifts his head, knowing he looks a mess, feeling like one too, and he does. God help him, he does.

From the moment of the crash to the moment he realized that the people who rescued him weren't trying to save him. The terrifying first night and how lost and scared he felt, to the way the days blurred into an almost comforting routine, like being at camp, only a sick and twisted kind of camp where they deny you breakfast when you do something wrong and they teach you how to break a man's ribs with both hands tied behind your back. He glosses over some parts, goes too far into detail during others, and hardly hears half the words pouring out of his mouth.

Through it all, Steve silently holds his hand.

 

-o-

 

Things with Steve are a little awkward after Bucky tells him.

It feels like it takes hours to get it all out, and Steve looks like he wants to cover Bucky's mouth and make him stop, at some points, but he doesn't. He doesn't make a sound. Bucky feels sick and tired afterwards, raw and exposed, and Steve looks  _furious_. Steve looks broken and anguished and  _pissed_ , like he's about to scour the entire earth looking for the people that did this so he can make them pay for it.

He doesn't, though, because Bucky puts his head in Steve's lap and Steve runs his hands through Bucky's hair instead, getting it out of the elastic first and not noticing when he catches on a knot and tugs too hard. They fall asleep like that, eventually, and Bucky feels a bout of relief when he wakes up, knowing that he's done it. He's gotten it out there. He's told Steve and Steve didn't crumble or flinch away from him in horror. He handled it, like he said he could, and the weight of hiding things from him is finally gone.

But it's not like it doesn't change things. For the first few days afterwards, Steve is clingy. Like, ridiculously clingy. He's at Bucky's side constantly, goes home to shower and change and comes back almost as soon as he's done. He keeps touching Bucky, too, like he has to remind himself that Bucky is here and fine. Bucky wouldn't mind, under normal circumstances, but he can't handle Steve thinking he's some broken thing that needs to be coddled.

At least there's the distraction of training with the other Avengers. Tony and Bruce are there the next time, though Bruce opts out of any fighting. Bucky learns fast that he and Natasha work well together, when they want to, their fighting styles similar and almost evenly matched. He also learns fast that Tony is an asshole and he and Steve bunt heads, but there's also a strong friendship there, underneath, and there's hardly ever any actual animosity between them.

Bucky would be lying if he says it doesn't bother him, watching Steve with everyone else. They're like his family now, the people who were here when Bucky couldn't be, but they're not replacements. They didn't take Bucky's place. They carved their own spaces into Steve's life and Bucky has no right to feel resentment towards them for it, only he does, a little. Sam and Steve are  _close_ , close in ways Bucky thought were reserved for him and Steve only. And Natasha and Steve have this teasing, I-give-you-shit-but-I-also-respect-you-more-than-anyone-in-the-world thing going that Bucky knows he can't compete with.

So he's jealous of Steve's friend. He can admit that… to himself, in his head, and never out loud.

It's like being the new kid in a school where everyone has known each other all their lives. There's a bond formed when you risk your lives together almost daily, apparently, and Bucky feels like he's encroaching on their territory all the time, just waiting for someone to ask what the hell he's doing and kick him out.

Only they don't. He catches Natasha watching him sometimes, still not quite trusting, but she fights with him and even teaches him how to use the extra weight of his metal arm to his advantage, instead of constantly trying to make up for it in a fight. Clint is more open than he's been in the months Bucky has known him, as if he's no longer Bucky's bodyguard, just his friend who occasionally drives him places and also gets a paycheck from his parents for hanging out with him. Thor is possibly the most easy to get along with person that Bucky has ever met, Sam acts like he and Bucky have been best friends for years, and he finds himself drifting to Bruce sometimes when the rest of them and their energy get to be too much to handle.

It's almost— Bucky hesitates to think it— good. For the first time since Bucky's been back, he feels like there's a reason for it. It's not just that he's  _okay_  or  _dealing with things_ ; he feels happy. Maybe this is Steve's family now, but they're inviting Bucky into it. Slowly, sure, one step at a time, yet they're still making the effort. There's only one thing that could make it better, but Bucky is more than aware of the fact that he burned that bridge to the ground that morning when he walked out on Steve.

And then Bucky gets to officially fight with them for the first time, and the not-so-fun parts of this life get very real, very fast.

It happens when he's downstairs training with Steve, the two of them running on the treadmills, Steve looking smug as he turns his up to its highest speed and hardly even breaks a sweat. Bucky isn't stupid enough to try and keep up with him, no matter how his pride feels about it, and besides, he can't sneak looks at Steve if he's too busy trying not to going flying off the damn thing.

He's distracted by Steve pulling up the front of his shirt to wipe off the minuscule amount of sweat on his face, appreciating all the skin suddenly on display, and the next thing he knows an alarm is going off, loud and booming, and he starts panicking before Steve shuts off his machine and says, "We need to go."

Right. This isn't just a group of weirdly athletic people who hang out in a home-gym sometimes. They fight. They save people. They risk their lives, and this is what Bucky asked for. This is what he wanted. Right?

"Thought I wasn't allowed to fight with you until everyone on the team said it was okay," Bucky reminds him as they step into the elevator.

Steve gives him a look. "If I tell you to stay here, will you?"

"No."

"Exactly. And we don't have time to fight about it."

No one ever talks about the less-than-glamorous parts of being a superhero, like the way Steve hops around trying to put on his suit and nearly falls flat on his face, or how Clint shows up with soap in his hair, in the middle of a shower when he had to leave. Natasha explains the problem to them with half of her hair perfectly ironed, falling in a straight curtain to her shoulder, and the other half its typical shinning curls. She doesn't look all that happy about it.

"It's worse when you're the middle of a date and you get a call that you have to go and save the city," Sam says conspiratorially. "Try having to explain  _that_   _one_."

"Try being in the middle of sex," Clint says as he counts his arrows.

Sam makes a face at him. "The only people you're having sex with would get the exact same call. I'm sure they understand."

"Yeah, but have you ever tried to aim an arrow with blueballs?"

Thor looks amused. "Imagine having to travel to an entirely different dimension."

Clint blinks. "Okay, you win."

"We need to hurry up," Steve reminds them, looking every bit the hero with his helmet on and his shield on his back. For a moment Bucky lets everything fade away and stops to appreciate how good he looks, that strong jaw, those shoulders that drive Bucky stupid sometimes, that  _ass_  in his— "Bucky."

"Huh?"

"Ready?"

"Yeah," Bucky says, pausing to tie his hair back. "I am."

But that might not exactly be true. Adrenaline pumps through his veins and this is not at all like training. The danger here is real and while he has no problem putting his own life on the line, the fact that Steve is doing it too sets Bucky on edge. (And, Bucky realizes with dawning horror, it's not just Steve that he's worrying about. If Clint, or Natasha, or Sam, or Bruce, or Thor, or even Tony get hurt, Bucky doesn't know what he'll do.)

He and Steve gravitate towards each other the whole time, back-to-back, instinctually. They're supposed to be a team, Bucky knows this, but he can't help the way he's always got an eye on Steve, always there the second Steve needs backup, and it's not like Steve is doing any differently. He can act like he's not watching Bucky's every move, but Bucky is too perceptive not to notice.

And then Steve gets hurt and Bucky realizes he isn't ready for this at all. The bullet lodges itself in Steve's shoulder and Bucky forgets everything, forgets everyone he's fighting, forgets the rest of the team, and all he can think about is getting Steve out of here and getting him to safety. That's his job, damn it. He's supposed to keep Steve safe, not let him get  _shot_.

"I'm fine," Steve says through gritted teeth, still fighting. "I'm  _fine_. Clint needs help. Go!"

_Damn it_. Bucky tears his eyes away from Steve and starts running in Clint's direction. This  _is_  a team, and if Steve says he's fine, then… Screw it to hell. Bucky has to believe him.

It's one of the hardest things he's ever done.


	12. Chapter 12

 

"It'll heal in a handful of days," Steve promises, trying, and failing, not to seem put out by Bucky fussing over him. "I swear."

Bucky tugs Steve's sleeve down over his arm and the fresh bandage there. "From scraped knees to  _bullet wounds_. What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Rogers?"

"We," Steve corrects. "What the hell have  _we_  gotten ourselves into."

Bucky chuckles, faking it, and grits his teeth. Worry has been twisting his gut since the moment Steve got shot, and it's yet to go away. It doesn't help that everyone else had hardly batted an eyelash, as if this is something that happens all the time, and Clint had even said, "He's gotten way worse," with a thump on Bucky's back like that was supposed to  _console_  him. Bucky doesn't want to know how badly Steve's been hurt in the past if him getting shot is hardly mean for concern anymore.

"I'm  _fine_ ," Steve says, reading his mind. "You can stop fussing around like I'm about to bite it."

"You're one to talk," Bucky says, eying himself in Steve's mirror. They came here afterward the fight to clean up and Bucky is wearing Steve's clothes. His own clothes are dirty and ripped and, in places, covered in blood that's mostly not his own. Steve's shirt bags on him in places, clings in others, and Bucky can't decide if he's happy with this turn of events or not. "You've been babysitting me since the day I told you everything that happened. You think I don't notice?"

Everything smells like Steve. It's driving Bucky up the damn walls.

When he turns away from the mirror, Steve is looking down guiltily. "I'm sorry. After you told me what happened, I can't help but feel like I should've done—"

" _Nothing_ ," Bucky interrupts. "There was nothing you could've done, alright? So you gotta— You gotta trust me when I say I'm okay. Alright?"

It takes Steve a moment but eventually he says, "Alright." He stands up, not even wincing over the pain in his shoulder. "Come on. If we don't hurry up they'll start eating without us."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"After the fight dinners are sort of a tradition," Steve says, grinning wide. "If you want to be part of the team, you come to the team dinners."

"You got shot and your first thought is getting dinner," Bucky mutters with a shake of his head. "There's something wrong with you, Steve."

"There is. I'm  _hungry_."

Bucky rolls his eyes, about to step out of the bathroom, only Steve's ginormous body blocks the way and he has to either shoulder past Steve or ask him to move to get out.

Steve lifts his hand before he can, pushing back a bit of Bucky's hair, his fingers lingering on Bucky's neck where it's left bare. "I like your hair like this," Steve says, quiet but so damn loud in the silence of the bathroom. His touch is warm enough to burn. "Have I told you that yet?"

Bucky resists the urge to shudder and slaps Steve's hand away. "Jesus Christ. I'm not a girl."

"What? A man can't tell another man he admires his ponytail?"

"It's a bun," Bucky says. "Now get your giant ass out of the way, would you?"

"Right." Steve does as he's told, but there's an odd look on his face as he follows Bucky out the door. "Remember how I didn't warn you last time, on New Year's, that things might be a little, uh, uncomfortable. With Tony?"

"Yeah," Bucky says slowly.

"Consider this a warning."

"You realize I've spent the last month with all of them, right?"

"This might be different."

"Why?"

"Because there will be alcohol involved," Steve admits. "And— I don't know. I'm just warning you. Just in case."

Bucky laughs, thinking Steve is joking, but as they make their way down the stairs he realizes that Steve isn't. He looks nervous and uncomfortable, his shoulders squared like he's preparing to go back into battle. "You're seriously worried about this," Bucky thinks out loud. "Why?"

"Just because, uh. They." Steve's ears are red. So is the back of his neck. "Look, everyone— that article, and then the  _pictures_  and— They all know. About New Year's. Or at least, they know what happened outside of the party. They don't know about the other stuff. That happened. That night."

"Ah."

Bucky knows how that is. His parents had seen that, too, and it wasn't exactly fun trying to explain to his mother that no, he and Steve are not finally together. The fact that she'd sounded so genuinely happy for him hadn't helped, either. And Bucky wishing more than anything that they were together? Yeah. That was like icing on the fucking cake of shitty situations.

"They know we're not together," Steve says quickly. "I swear."

"Good," Bucky says hollowly.

"I mean, Natasha and Sam asked, but I told them there's nothing happening there. Nothing at all."

"Good," Bucky repeats.

"But the others might— they might ask about it, or something, or make jokes. I don't know. I just wanted you to know, beforehand. In case it happens."

"Thanks."

Steve nods. Bucky smiles like his heart isn't in his stomach, being eaten away by acid.

"So where are we going, exactly?" he asks, wanting to change the subject.

When Steve smiles, Bucky can tell it's real. "Sam's."

At least it's not some apartment in the tower, high up with those god damn floor-to-ceiling windows that make Bucky want to throw up. "Where does Sam live, anyway?"

"Few blocks away from here, actually."

"He's got a place that close to here that can hold all of us?" Most of the places near Steve are old apartment buildings, the kind that haven't been renovated yet to resemble the high-end condos where Bucky lives.

"Not exactly," Steve says.

Bucky frowns, wondering what he means, but when they get there he stops wondering.

Sam's apartment is charming. It's clean, the walls white and the furniture is more comfortable than currently in style, a little dated and lived in. It's not flashy, by any standards, but it's cozy in a way Bucky's own high-end apartment will never be, warm and welcoming and feeling like an actual  _home_.

It's also really, really fucking small. Sam is a bachelor and his job isn't exactly lucrative. It's not like he  _needs_  much space, really, and Bucky bets this place is great when he's home alone, or with one other person. With the entire Avengers team, though? It feels like sticking a giant in a dollhouse. The moment they step in the apartment Bucky has to mentally tell himself not to jump at the bombardment of sound. The smell of something spicy— curry, maybe— is heavy in the air, almost to the point of being too much. And it's comical, seeing everyone trying to fit in the small space.

Clint and Natasha are on the couch with Sam, the three of them squished together to fit. Bucky can see the dining room to his left, and Bruce and Tony and Thor are at the table, respective beers in front of everyone but Bruce, some weird, flashing piece of technology on the table between them, a hologram hovering above it, illuminating their faces.

"Don't even ask," Steve advises. "Asgardian technology. Even Tony doesn't know what to do with most of it. Thor gets a kick out of bringing him new toys every time he comes just so Tony can spend hours agonizing over what they do."

Even as they watch, Tony sticks something into the device and it starts beeping and shaking violently. Thor laughs, the sound of it booming over the beeping, and Tony looks more amused than anything.

"Just give me a hint, what does it do?"

"It's beyond anything you could understand."

"Yeah, see, you said that last time and I'm pretty sure you brought me a toaster."

Thor refuses to answer and Steve nudges Bucky, stripping off his jacket as he does. Bucky takes his off, hands it to Steve, and Steve hangs it up in the closet with a lingering glance at Bucky that moves over the weird fit of his own shirt on Bucky's body. He gets this look in his eyes, this dark, hungry look, but it's gone before Bucky can properly process it.

"Took you both long enough," Sam says from the couch. "Not much food left."

"I hope you're kidding," Steve says. Then, to punctuate his words, his stomach rumbles.

"Eating a lot: side effect of the serum?" Bucky guesses.

"I have a really fast metabolism."

"I ordered an extra pizza," Natasha tells him. "You'd think we would've learned by now to order enough food to feed a crowd. Between you, Thor, and Bruce, we basically are."

Steve grins hopefully. "There's still curry left, though, right?"

"In the kitchen," Sam says. "You know what to do."

Steve's hand lands on Bucky's back, giving him the slightest shove forward. "You go sit," he instructs. "I'll get you a plate."

"Get him a beer, too," Sam calls after Steve. "And there're bottles of water in the fridge."

Steve salutes him before ducking into the kitchen, and Bucky is very aware of the fact that he's alone with Sam, Natasha and Clint. That shouldn't bother him, considering how much time they've spent together in the last few weeks, and given the fact that Steve is just a thin wall away, but it does. He can't get what Steve said before they got here out of his head, and he feels awkwardly in the spotlight as he crosses the room and sits down stiffly in the only seat left: an old leather recliner that groans embarrassingly every time he so much as shifts.

"How's his shoulder?" Natasha asks him, a bottle of beer dangling precariously between two of her fingers.

"He says he's fine. It'll heal in a few days."

"He once blocked an RPG with his shield and said he was fine afterwards."

Bucky tells himself to take slow breaths. "Of course he has."

"He does heal fast. I'm sure he wasn't lying," Natasha assures him, her eyes moving lower than Bucky's face. Her grin grows slowly, slow enough that Bucky has a bit of warning before she adds, "Nice shirt."

Clint frowns at him. "Isn't that—?" He blinks. "Oh."

"We went to Steve's place to clean up," Bucky defends, absolutely not going red, the way Steve definitely would.

"So that's what the kids are calling it these days," Sam says coyly.

"It wasn't like that. My clothes were covered in blood and dirt."

"Whatever you say, man. It's none of our business."

Bucky glares at Natasha for this. It's her fault, yet she doesn't seem very regretful. "Are  _you_  okay?" she does ask, though. Her smile diminishes a bit and her gaze, as it roams over him this time, is more assessing than anything.

"Not a scratch," Bucky says, though it's not the truth. There's a gash running up his arm and he has a bruise the size of Texas on his hip, but he's okay. He wasn't fucking  _shot_ , at least.

"So how was the first time officially fighting with the Avengers?" Sam wonders. "You regret joining us? I know I did the second I agreed to it, but Steve. He begged, you know? Can't say no to that face."

"I never begged," Steve argues as he comes out of the kitchen, two plates in hand. He gives one to Bucky, warm and heaped with more food than the others made them think was left, the smell of it clogging his nostrils as soon as he puts it in his lap. "I asked."

"Not how I remember it."

Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly and perches on the armrest of Bucky's chair, his legs planted on the floor to keep it from tipping back. If he's aware of the smug look Sam and Natasha share, he doesn't show it. He's too busy digging into his food like the disgusting slob he is when he's really hungry.

"At least Barnes has table manners," Sam complains. "Steve, chew."

"I am chewing," Steve says loudly, doing just that with his mouth open.

Bucky elbows him for it, and Steve looks down at him, grinning, with a smudge of sauce beside his mouth. Habitually, Bucky reaches up, wiping it away with his thumb, and then pops his thumb in his mouth, sucking it off.

"That was disgusting," Sam states. "On an adorable and sanitary level. I won't stand for that shit in my apartment."

Steve looks more pleased than embarrassed as he slides a cold, wet beer into the space between Bucky's leg and the side of the recliner. His own bottle of water is tucked under his arm, but Bucky is curious. "You can't get drunk  _at all_?"

"Not entirely true," Natasha says.

Steve awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck. "Let's just say I can't get drunk on  _normal_  alcohol and leave it at that."

"Let's not leave it at that," Bucky says. "I wanna know the story behind this."

"Trust me," Steve says flatly, "you don't."

"I think I really do."

"I'll tell you," Sam offers. "If you tell them the soap dispenser story."

Steve gapes down at Bucky. "When did you tell him about that?!"

"One," tony interrupts, sticking his head out of the dining room, "is this story embarrassing? Two, is it sexual?"

"Don't you dare," Steve warns.

"We were at the movies," Bucky says, easing, back into the chair.

"Buck."

"In the bathroom," Bucky continues. "I'm fixing my hair, Steve's washing his hands, and we're arguing because I thought the movie sucked and Steve thought it was great. And Steve, he's getting irritated, and he hits the button on the soap dispenser a little harder than he should've and the thing just— it starts foaming. Everywhere. All over the counter, onto the floor, and it just won't stop."

" _You_  need to stop," Steve says, tipping the recliner back enough to jolt Bucky, but he sits there through the entire story, going along with it, shaking his head at the right times, hiding his face in shame at others, correcting Bucky when he screw up one of the facts.

"By the time the manager gets there, Steve's got no shirt on, the floor is soaked, and I'm laughing too hard to explain," Bucky concludes, grinning so wide it hurts. "He dragged us outside and told us not to come back. That would've been the end of it, too, but then about a week later Steve's mom wanted to take us to the movies and he had to explain to her why he didn't want to go to that particular theater."

"I can't believe you still find that funny," Steve admits.

"It  _was_  funny."

"You know what else was funny? That time when  _you_ —"

"Sam," Bucky says quickly, knowing exactly where this is going and stopping it in its tracks. "You were going to tell me a different story about Steve, right?"

Sam grins. Steve groans.

It turns into a competition between all of them, everyone trying to tell the better embarrassing story, not just about Steve but about the whole team. Bucky cracks open his beer, leaves his cleaned plate on the table atop Steve's, and Steve leans into him as they all talk, nearly sliding into Bucky's lap over the course of the night.

And Bucky. Bucky falls in love with him all over again. With the way he laughs at something Natasha says, or how he squeezes Bucky's leg when something is apparently too funny to handle. His eyes shining so damn blue in the lamp light, and his hair looking like gold when he tilts his head just right. Bucky is so gone for Steve it takes his breath away sometimes, but he acts like it doesn't every time Steve meets his eyes.

Tony is the first of the night to leave, his phone ringing and his face lighting up. "Gotta go," he says, already halfway out the door.

"Next time you can tell Pepper she's invited, you know," Sam calls after him.

Thor leaves next, but only after dragging everyone, including Bucky, into a crushing hug. Bruce follows not long after him, confirming something Bucky's been wondering when he presses a kiss to Natasha's cheek, first, and then tries to do the same to Clint until Clint turns his head at the last second and gets his mouth instead.

"Hey, hey, none of that," Sam says, eying them suspiciously. "That was band after the bathroom incident, remember?"

"I try very hard to forget that, actually," Bruce says, only slightly embarrassed.

"I don't," Natasha says, not embarrassed at all. "It's not like we  _meant_  to break your sink."

"But you did. And you scarred me for life doing it."

"You don't want to know," Steve whispers to him. "Trust me."

"We should probably head out, too," Natasha says once Bruce is gone. She pulls out her phone. "I'm calling a cab."

"I don't need a cab," Clint argues. "I only had four beers. And maybe, like, six others. I can walk."

Natasha doesn't dignify that with a response. "Should I call you one, too?" she asks Bucky, her gaze slowly sliding to Steve. "Or are you two planning on walking home together?"

"I live on the other side of the city," Bucky says, though she already knows this.

"Steve doesn't."

"She's trying to see if we're going home together," Steve informs him.

"Oh." Bucky shrugs and asks, "Are we?" because it's not a big deal, right? They're friends. They stay the night with each other sometimes. A lot of the time. There's nothing— there's nothing wrong with that, so there's no point in trying to hide it. You only hide things that you're ashamed or embarrassed of.

"If you want," Steve says. "Sam, do you need help cleaning up?"

"Nah, I got it," Sam yawns, waving his hand. "I'll do it in the morning. You guys go ahead."

"You're sure?" Bucky asks, scolding himself for not offering his first. His mother would kill him if she knew he had dinner at someone's home and didn't immediately offer to help clean up afterwards. Not that he did a lot of cleaning up at home, but still. She raised him to be more polite than this.

"I'd tell you if I wasn't," Sam promises. "But it was nice having you over, Bucky. And you two." He gives Natasha and Clint a smile that's only half-sarcastic. "Always nice to see you leave without breaking something first."

"One time and you never let it go," Clint mutters, getting to his feet. And then he walks right into the coffee table, knocking Bucky and Steve's plates to the ground. One of them cracks. The other flips upright, leaving curry on the off-white carpet.

The room goes quiet as soon as the rattling of the bottles on the table stops. Sam's smile cracks away, piece by piece, and Bucky has to bite his tongue hard to keep from laughing.

"Thank you for having us," Natasha says before briskly tugging Clint out the door.

"I love them," Sam mutters, "but I swear I'll wring their necks one day."

"The joys of parenthood," Steve chuckles.

"Tell me about it." Sam eyes the mess on the floor and shakes his head. "Fuck it. I'm going to bed. You know where the door is. I'll call you tomorrow, Steve."

"Not too early."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Why? You two plan on having a late night?"

"Walked right into that, didn't I?"

"You did."

Steve grabs their jackets from the closet, tugs Bucky out the door, and says over his shoulder, "Goodnight, Sam."

It's chilly when they get outside, mid-February air cutting through his jacket, but Bucky doesn't mind all that much. The sky is that weird, dull-grey it gets in winter, never quite as dark as it is the rest of the year, and their boots crunch snow under their feet as they walk. Steve's shoulder bumps into his and it's nice, but it feels like there's something off, something missing, something they're not doing right.

It isn't until Steve's gloved hand brushes against his that he realizes what it is, and he has to shove his own hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out and holding Steve's.

By the time they make it to Steve's apartment, Bucky's nose feels frozen, he's shivering, and he's pretty damn sure his feet are blocks of ice inside his shoes. Steve's apartment is blissfully warm, the heat left on while he was out, but it's like trying to melt an iceberg with a hair dryer. Bucky doesn't even want to take his gloves off, and he's not really sure that he can, either.

(So he does mind the cold. A little.)

"We've should've taken a cab," Steve says, concern lining his forehead. "You're shivering."

"I can't feel my feet," Bucky complains, sniffling pathetically.

"Come here."

Bucky shuffles forward and Steve pulls down the zipper of Bucky's jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He reaches for Bucky's gloves, too, his fingers brushing over Bucky's wrist as he removes them, and Bucky stops him, bringing Steve's hand up to his face.

"You're  _hot_ ," Bucky says, sounding more accusatory than he means to. "What the hell are you, a furnace?"

Steve's thumb brushes over his cheek, tentative, before he drops his hand and orders, "Couch. There should be a blanket over there. I'll put on tea."

"You're the one with a gunshot wound," Bucky complains as he kicks off one of his boots. "I should be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"Do you want the tea or not?"

"What do you think?"

Steve snorts to himself and bustles around the kitchen while Bucky struggles out of his other boot. He stumbles to the couch, tugging the blanket off the back before he collapses onto it with a grateful sigh. He wiggles his toes, just to make sure he  _can_  feel them, and keeps his left arm held away from his body a bit, the damn thing a magnet for the cold. It makes his shoulder ache a bit, like the wounds there are freshly healing and not scarred over, the ghost of pain churning his stomach.

"You know, it wasn't that bad tonight," Bucky says as he wraps himself up in the blanket. "You made me think I was about to walk into hell."

"I thought it was going to be worse," Steve admits.

"Because a few of your friends think we're dating? Or at least screwing?"

Steve makes a choking sound but Bucky can't muster the energy to lean over the back of the couch and check the look on his face. "They're your friends too," is all he says.

"And friends give each other shit sometimes. It's not that big of a deal."

"I just thought…" Steve sighs and turns the water on, halting the conversation for a moment. "I thought it might make you uncomfortable, after what happened."

Bucky laughs hollowly. "Why would it make me uncomfortable? We've both made peace with it. Right?"

"Yeah." There's a loud clanking behind him, like something being thrown in the sink. "We've both made peace with it."

Bucky stares at the TV even though it's turned off. There's a tension in the air and he knows it's his fault, but apparently he's a masochistic asshole that doesn't know when to shut the hell up. He bites his cheek, wondering what to say to get the tension to go away, only Steve sits down on the couch before he can.

"Let's not talk about it," Steve suggests. "Let's just— leave the past in the past."

Bucky frowns. That doesn't sound like Steve at all, but he nods anyway, grateful for the way out. "Tea?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Water's on," Steve says.

"Good." Bucky scoots over, bringing the blanket with him, attracted to Steve's warmth. Steve catches him, eyebrows raised, and Bucky pouts a little. "You're warm, asshole. Share your heat."

Steve chuckles, resting his arm over the back of the couch in invitation, and Bucky takes him up on it immediately. He curls into Steve's side, throwing the blanket over both of them, and Steve's arm falls onto his shoulders, holding him close. He radiates heat, so damn warm, and Bucky isn't all that surprised. Steve is like the sun and one day he's gonna burn Bucky right up, but that doesn't stop Bucky from taking every chance to get closer to him.

"Better?"

"Be better if you'd shut up," Bucky mumbles into Steve's arm. "I'm trying to sleep here."

"I thought you wanted tea."

"Shh."

He can practically hear Steve's eyes rolling and he laughs, arm going around Steve's waist. Steve's heart is beating under his head, faster than it should be, pounding, and Bucky's hand unconsciously curls against Steve's waist.

"For what it's worth," Bucky says, even though he knows he should stop talking, he needs to stop talking. He doesn't stop talking, "I'm sorry for that morning. I could've handled things better, after what happened the night before."

"It's not your fault," Steve says. He has his head tipped back, eyes closed. "I was the one who screwed things up."

"What?"

"Can't blame you for not wanting to be with me after what I did," Steve continues, oblivious to Bucky's confusion. "Relationships are built on trust and I broke yours before we even started. You shouldn't be the one apologizing."

Bucky sits up. " _What_?"

Steve opens his eyes, his expression uncharacteristically closed off. "I—" The whistling of the kettle interrupts him and Bucky sees the relief in Steve's eyes before he jumps to his feet. "I'll be right back."

"No way," Bucky says. He tries to kick off the blankets, but he gets stuck and Steve manages to get into the kitchen before he frees himself. "Wait," Bucky grunts, hurry after him. "Wait, I thought— I thought it was  _my_  fault that we're not..."

Steve frowns at him over his shoulder, reaching to grab cups from the cupboard. The tea kettle keeps whistling. "What? No. How could it be your fault?"

"I walked out on you."

"And I deserved it," Steve says with an uncaring shrug.

"No," Bucky argues. "I should've at least given you a chance to explain, but I was too much of an asshole to do that and you changed your mind about us because of it."

"What are you talking about?" Steve looks genuinely confused. "I didn't change my mind."

Bucky reminds himself to breathe. "You didn't," he says.

Steve takes the kettle off the heat and says, quiet but firm, "It would take a lot more than you being rightfully mad at me to change my feelings for you."

"And how—" It feels like Bucky's run a marathon, his heart pounding. "How  _do_  you feel about me?"

Steve doesn't turn around this time. He sticks a teabag in each of the cups and pours water over them, methodical and careful not to spill any. "Why are we talking about this?" he asks at last, when Bucky can't take the quiet any longer. "What's done is done. We should just leave it behind us."

"No."

Steve finally turns around, anger hardening his tone. "No?"

"No," Bucky repeats. "What the hell happened to the kid that couldn't be pushed down enough times to keep him from getting back up? What happened to my best friend who doesn't know when to let things go?" he demands. "Leave it behind us? What the fuck is that, Steve? Since when do you give up on things that easily?"

"I'm not  _giving up_  on  _anything_ ," Steve says, wounded and angry, all at once. "Our friendship is too important to me to lose, so if that means accepting that there will never be more to us than that, so be it. That's not taking the easy way out, Bucky, believe me, but I'd rather have you in my life than push you away because I can't figure out how to get the hell over being in love with you."

 _In love with you_. The words echo over and over in Bucky's head, bouncing off the walls of his mind. He takes a stumbling step back, shock making his knees weak, but Steve said it. Steve just fucking said that. He's— he's—

Bucky can't fight the grin off his face. "You're in love with me," he says.

"It's not like I've done a great job of hiding it," Steve sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, Bucky. I'll get over it, I will, just give me a bit of time and I—"

"Such a dumbass," Bucky mutters. He fists his hands in Steve's shirt and pulls him down into a kiss before he can say anything else. They've done enough talking, and all it's done is screw things up. The two of them, they're so stupid Bucky almost wants to laugh, only it's not all that funny when he thinks about how many days, weeks, months,  _years_  they've wasted being too blind to realize what was right in fucking front of them.

"What are you doing?" Steve gasps against Bucky's mouth.

"Kissing you. What the hell does it look like?"

"But—"

"I love you too, alright?" Bucky says, pulling back so Steve can see that he means it, means it more than anything in the fucking world. Steve blinks slowly, confusion and disbelief and then, finally, realization flickering in his eyes. "Now do you wanna talk about it or do you wanna kiss me?"

Steve kisses him hard, hand sliding into Bucky's hair. Bucky groans into his mouth, so warm now he can't even remember what it was like to be freezing just a minute ago. Steve's arms are around him, Steve's kissing him, Steve  _loves_  him, and there's a heat in Bucky's chest that trickles down into his stomach, making him press Steve back against the counter.

"Wait."

Bucky whines. "Seriously?"

"This is important." Steve gives him a breathtaking grin and leans in to kiss the tip of Bucky's nose. "I love you," he says, and Bucky gets it, gets that's he's saying it just to say it, just because he can, but—

"Oh my  _god_ ," Bucky groans. He pushes Steve away and turns around, pretending to walk away in exasperation.

Steve grabs his wrist and tugs him back in like they're dancing, going so far as to dip Bucky a little before leaning over, their lips almost brushing again. "I'm gonna tell you that every day, I hope you realize. You better get used to it."

"To you being annoying? Steve, I've been used to that for years."

Steve simply laughs at that, closing the space between their lips before the sound dies out. Bucky doesn't complain, but he does hold Steve back for a moment. "Were going to have a long goddamn conversation about communication later, though," he warns.

This time it's Steve that groans.

"But after the kissing."


	13. Chapter 13

 

Bucky can't help but think, the next morning, that this is exactly how things should've been after New Year's, if he and Steve hadn't royally fucked everything up. It's not like things are perfect, obviously, because Bucky's still an idiot and Steve's definitely still an idiot, and they're probably (definitely) still going to argue. There are things left to be said and stuff that needs to be sorted out, but Bucky wakes up in Steve's bed and they make breakfast, and Bucky doesn't walk out afterwards, so that has to count for something.

It turns out that dating Steve? Not all that different to being his best friend. All that changes, in the following days, is that Steve's grin is a little wider, his hand is rarely separated from Bucky's, and there's the kissing. Like, a lot of fucking kissing. If someone superglued their lips together, he doubts they'd even notice, and it's the greatest thing of Bucky's life, almost.

It takes all of about five minutes for everyone to figure out. They go into the gym to train two days later and Natasha is the first to notice, her eyes instantly zeroing in on the hickey Steve's left on Bucky's neck. She glares at Bucky, looking like she's contemplating beating him over the head with the weights she's lifting, probably thinking he's been with someone else, but then Steve's hand lingers on Bucky's back and Bucky can see her eyes widening from across the room.

It takes everyone else a little longer, but not by much. If they had wanted to hide it for a while, they're shit out of luck, but Bucky doesn't want to anyway. Bucky wants to rent a blimp and tell the entire fucking world, actually.

Except his parents. That's one conversation he's not looking forward to having, and he puts it off as long as he can. He and Steve train a lot, and then there's another incident involving someone trying to destroy and/or take over the city. They visit Steve's mom's grave, too, and Bucky buys the most expensive bouquet of flowers he can. Steve doesn't cry, not once, but he squeezes Bucky's hand too hard and presses the cold tip of his nose to Bucky's neck and breathes instead. Bucky  _does_  cry, and he's not ashamed of it.

He can't put off telling his parents forever, though, and the next time his mom calls and asks him to dinner, he tells her he's bringing Steve. As his date. Better to face the music now than do it down the line and have to explain to his parents why he kept it from them. They've learned the hard way that keeping things from the people you love usually ends badly.

Bucky isn't all that excited to go to the awkward dinner, sure, but Steve is a downright  _mess_.

"I can't believe you're nervous," Bucky laughs as Steve struggles with his tie, the back of his neck turning redder and redder as he fumbles in front of the mirror. "It's my parents. They adopted you, like, fifteen years ago. They love you. We've been to a million dinners with them and you decide to be nervous  _now_?"

"This is different."

"Because you're my boyfriend?"

Steve meets his eyes in the mirror. He's trying not to smile. "Your what?"

"Would you stop being weird about the B-word and let me fix your tie?"

Steve turns around and does just that, looking somewhere above Bucky's head as his fingers deftly fix the mess Steve has made of his tie. "You realize your mom always planned for you to get married to some girl who went to an Ivy League college, and have at least three grandkids, right? How many times did your parents set you up when we were teenagers?"

"Too many," Bucky mutters.

"Exactly." Steve closes his eyes. "Your parents love me, I'm not arguing that. I  _know_  that. But they might not love me with you. They've always wanted everything for you."

"And you're not it?" Bucky asks. "Are you trying to say I could do better?"

Steve gets a weird look on his face, several emotions trying to take prominence. "Bucky."

"No, seriously. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Steve looks him dead in the eye. "You could."

"No, I couldn't." Steve opens his mouth to argue but Bucky doesn't let him. "I can never do better than you because better doesn't  _exist_ , Steve, come on. If they want everything for me then they're going to be damn happy we're together because you  _are_  everything."

Steve stares at him, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing minutely. "You're not too bad at this boyfriend thing, you know that?"

"Course I'm not," Bucky huffs, smoothing Steve's tie against his chest. "Did you ever have doubts?" Steve raises his eyebrows. "Fuck off."

"We're going to be late," Steve reminds him, leaning in for a quick kiss. "Clint should be waiting downstairs."

Bucky grins at that, an idea forming in his head, something to take Steve's mind off his nerves. Steve frowns at him, picking up on Bucky's mischief, but he doesn't ask and Bucky waits until they're in the car, taking the middle seat instead of his usual one at the window behind Clint.

When the car moves, and Clint is busy driving, Bucky leans in and drags his lips over Steve's neck, working his way up Steve's jaw. "Remember all those times he complained about us flirting in the car?"

Understanding dawns in Steve's eyes; his grin matches Bucky's. "Vaguely."

"What are you two— hey, stop that," Clint says, gaze flickering between the rearview mirror and the windshield.

"Stop what?" Bucky innocently asks, his hand on Steve's thigh now.

"You think I won't take one for the team and crash this car to avoid having you two—  _Seriously_? Are you even listening to me?"

Bucky isn't. He's got Steve's tongue in his mouth and a hand in Steve's hair, and Clint's voice is a distant annoyance that he doesn't pay any attention too. Steve moans anyway, drowning him out, and Bucky kind of forgets that they're in the car when Steve's tongue curls against his the way it had curled against the head of his cock just an hour earlier in the shower.

Something hits Bucky in the head and he reels back, looking down at the stale pizza crust sitting in his lap. "I warned you," Clint says, eyes still on the road.

"How old is this?"

"Day or two. There's more where that came from."

"Do Natasha and Bruce know you're disgusting?"

"Probably."

Bucky snorts a laugh. "I'm surprised you haven't quit yet. I thought you would now that I know about everything."

"Do you  _know_  how well your parents pay me?" Clint asks. "Being a superhero doesn't exactly pay the bills."

Bucky can't really argue with that, and he's happy Clint is still here. He doesn't need someone else following him around just because his parents seem to think he still needs a babysitter. If Clint quits, Bucky knows it'll only be a matter of days before his parents hire someone else to take his place, and Bucky is glad he gets to avoid the argument that would start.

When he looks over, Steve is smiling faintly. He doesn't look nervous at all.  _Mission accomplished_ , Bucky thinks.

Thankfully,  _miraculously_ , things aren't as awkward as he's expecting them to be when he gets to the house. In fact, his family hardly acts any different. His mother still hugs Steve tightly, his sisters still fight for the spot next to him, and not once does anyone actually mention the fact that he and Steve are together, to the point where Bucky is honestly a little confused.

He clears his throat after the main course, as they wait for dessert to be brought out, and Steve's hand finds his under the table. "I just, uh," he begins, balking a little when everyone looks at him. "I just wanted to let you guys know that Steve and I are, um. We're."

"Dating?" his mother flippantly replies. "Yes, dear, you did mention that on the phone."

"Right. So that's…"

"Shocking," his mother says blandly. "Truly."

"Didn't see that coming a mile away," Rebecca mutters.

"What your mother and sister are trying to say," his father adds, louder than the others, "is that we're very happy for the two of you. Could you pass the wine?"

Bucky passes the wine and that's that. Easy as anything. Bucky knew Steve's worries were pointless, that his parents wouldn't ever be anything but happy for them, yet he wasn't expecting it to be  _this_  easy. He thought they'd be at least a  _little_  surprised, a little invasive with their awkward questions about the whole thing. He probably should've known better.

"Your birthday is coming up next month," his mother says a moment later, changing the subject. "Have you considered whether you're having your usual get together?"

'Get together' is a really neat and polite way of putting the bash Bucky's thrown every year for his birthday since he was old enough to want one. For as long as he can remember, he's always had big birthday parties. Bouncy castles when he was younger, live bands when he was older. In high school, it used to be something that everyone talked about in March, debating whether they'd get an invite, being extra nice to Bucky in hopes that he'd ask them to come.

He hadn't even realized, until now, that his birthday was coming up. In light of everything else, it's not that important. He hasn't celebrated his birthday in five years; it's not really a priority for him anymore.

But now that she's mentioned it, something in the back Bucky's mind struggles to come forward, a nagging memory trying to claw its way out. He frowns, clearing his throat, and Steve gives him a weird look as he shifts in his seat, his vision going blurry and his mind desperately trying to figure out what the hell is wrong.

He's causing a scene and he knows it, panting and squeezing Steve's hand so tight, but he can't seem to stop it. It feels like his head is splitting open, cracked down the middle, and it  _hurts_.

"James?"

Like someone flicking off a switch, it all stops. "Huh?" he asks, disoriented.

"I said, you never answered my question," his mother says slowly, giving him a peculiar look. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah," Bucky lies, avoiding looking at Steve because he knows Steve sees right through it. "Sorry. And I— yeah. I want to have the party."

"Should I leave the guest list to you, then, or should I put it together myself?"

"No," Bucky says loudly, the words bursting from his mouth before he can stop it, and they don't stop. "No, I'll put together the guest list."

"Okay," his mother says carefully, reaching for her wine glass. "Just send me the list when it's finished."

Bucky nods, reaching for his own glass, and realizes he'd finished it off earlier. "I need to go to the bathroom," he says abruptly, pushing away from the table. "Excuse me."

There're nine bathrooms in the entire house, three of them on the main floor, but Bucky climbs the stairs and goes to the one in his old bedroom, out of habit and because it's farther away from the dining room. He manages to get there and shuts the door behind himself before a wave of nausea sends him to his knees, gripping the edge of the counter to keep from outright collapsing.

He feels clammy and sick so suddenly. Like that time in Hawaii after he'd eaten that bed shellfish, it takes him down quickly, without any warning. Sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and he can't do anything but lower himself the rest of the way to the ground, thankful that his parents keep every inch of the house absolutely spotless when his cheek presses against the tile.

It feels like something's crawling around in his mind. Not his brain, but his  _mind_. Something with sharp nails that dig in every once in a while, stinging pain radiating through his body. It's jumbling his thoughts, everything going blank for moments before they come back with clarity.

"Bucky?"

"Steve," Bucky slurs, and if he was anywhere but at home, he'd think someone drugged him or something, but he knows that couldn't have happened and he definitely didn't have enough to drink to feel like this, so what the  _fuck_?

"Shit," he hears Steve say, and then he's being lifted… kind of. Steve is on the floor with him, pulling Bucky almost into his lap and brushing Bucky's hair back from his forehead. "Bucky? Bucky, are you with me? What happened? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No," Bucky says quickly, trying to blink away the nausea and confusion. "No, I'm fine."

"You're on the floor, Buck." Steve sounds angry but all he looks is worried out of his mind. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know," he admits. "My  _head_."

Steve looks him over, no doubt searching for blood or any kind of injury, but he doesn't find any. "What do you need?" he asks. "Water? Or—"

"Can we." His voice cracks. "Can we go home?"

"Yeah." Steve nods firmly. "Yeah, we can. Come on. I'll get you to the car and tell your parents you're not feeling well, okay?"

"Thanks."

Bucky is wobbly on his feet and he has to lean on Steve the whole way. He feels guilty about bailing before dessert but he knows that if he goes back into that dining room, he'll cause another scene. Better to get out of here before someone besides Steve realizes something is up.

Steve presses a kiss to his forehead once he's in the car, taking one more moment to make sure Bucky's okay before he jogs back into the house. Bucky leans back against his seat, too exhausted to pull on his seatbelt yet, and doesn't even notice Clint is in the car until he clears his throat.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

Bucky cracks open his eyes, the typical  _I'm fine_  on the tip of his tongue, but what comes out instead is: "Do you have anything to write with?"

"Uh." Clint frowns, leaning over the seat divider to pull open the glove compartment. "I should have a pen here somewhere."

"And something to write on," Bucky adds, feeling well enough to sit forward.

Clint finds him a pen without a cap and an old envelope that's been ripped open already. He scratches the pen along it over and over, close to tearing it farther before ink finally starts to show up. "Well, it works, at least," he says as he hands it over.

Bucky forgets to thank him. He takes the pen, his hands shaking a little as he presses the tip to the envelope, and then he blinks and the back of the envelope is covered in names, over a dozen of them, his familiar messy, blocky handwriting staring up at him. Bucky's heart pounds. He doesn't remember writing any of it.

Quickly, Bucky looks up at Clint, expecting to find Clint gaping at him in wonder, but Clint's back is turned, his fingers drumming idly on the steering wheel, and there's no one else around to witness what just happened.

Unease makes Bucky's skin prickle. Something's wrong, and he knows it, but the thing is— things are good right now. In his life. Bucky is happy, so damn happy, and he doesn't need anything coming in and fucking ruining it. Whatever the hell this is, Bucky can't take it right now. He can't. He refuses to.

Before Clint can turn around, Bucky stuffs the envelope in his pocket and shoves the entire thing from his mind.

"How're you feeling?" Steve asks when he gets back, hardly a glance for Clint in the front seat.

"Tired," Bucky says. It's the truth, technically.

"Can you take us back to the apartment?" Steve asks Clint.

"Which one?"

Steve looks to Bucky, who shrugs. "Yours," he says. "More food in the cupboards."

Steve snorts. "You really need to go grocery shopping."

"I'll do it tomorrow," Bucky says sleepily.

Through the whole ride, Steve looks worried and Bucky doesn't really have the energy to assure him that he's fine. All he can do is rest his head on Steve's shoulder and try not to think about the envelope burning a hole in his pocket. Clint, at least, keeps up conversation, filling in all the spaces Bucky leaves, and Bucky is grateful for the distraction he lends, keeping Steve occupied enough that he doesn't push Bucky for answers.

The aching in his head has subsided enough by the time they make it to Steve's apartment that he doesn't feel like he's going to throw up when he steps out of the car. He handles the stairs himself, not needing Steve to lean on, though Steve hovers the whole time, just in case. Bucky can't blame him for it, not when he knows he'd be the exact same way if the roles were reversed.

By now, Bucky is used to Steve's routine when he gets home. The first time he'd done it, he told Bucky he was just turning on the lights, but Bucky knows now that Steve is actually just paranoid. Whenever they get to the apartment after leaving it for a while, Steve makes Bucky stay just inside the door as he quickly checks over the rest of the space, making sure no one's waiting for him or left a surprise while he was out. Bucky would mock him for it if he wasn't so glad that Steve is actually taking precautions, especially considering the life he lives. The chances of someone waiting for him at home are too high for Bucky to find it the least bit funny.

Today, he doesn't bother. He's so busy fretting over Bucky that he doesn't do his usual sweep of the apartment, and that's probably why he offers to get Bucky a glass of water before he notices the man sitting on his couch.

"You ever consider upping your security, Rogers?" the man asks, raising an eyebrow. The other is hidden beneath an eyepatch.

"Thought about it," Steve says, looking less startled than he should. "Bucky, this is Nick Fury. Nick, this is—"

"I know who he is," Nick Fury says shortly. "He's why I'm here, actually. Normally I expect Romanoff to keep me up to date with things, but she failed to mention that you were adding a new member to the team." Steve stiffens a little. "In fact, you  _all_  failed to mention it, but I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. I figured you might be a little busy, so I let it slide. I'm done letting it slide."

Bucky doesn't feel all that tired anymore. Unconsciously, he takes a step forward, carefully positioning himself between Steve and the man on his couch.

"It's fine," Steve says, catching on immediately. He puts a steadying hand on Bucky's shoulder.  _Relax_ , it says. "Nick's a friend. He— he's the one who brought the team together, actually."

"So you can understand my surprise when no one thought to tell me about the new addition," Nick says, unamused.

For reasons he doesn't really get, Bucky suddenly feels ten years younger, like he's sitting in the principal's office. Fury gives off that kind of air, like he's a man used to being in charge and used to getting his way— and used to reprimanding. Steve doesn't look all that reprimanded, but when the hell does he ever? He always takes punishment with a straight face and stiff shoulders, and that's how he looks now.

"I'm not part of the team," Bucky says slowly, seeing Steve's way out of trouble. "I forced him to tell me about it and I started following him. He doesn't even want me there."

"Is that so," Fury says.

"No, it's not," Steve interrupts, giving Bucky a silencing look before he can add anything else. "He  _is_  part of the team, and he's going to remain part of the team."

"Is  _that_  so."

"Yeah, it is, because if he goes? I go. And I know I won't be the only one."

Fury rolls his eyes, the couch creaking as he stands up. "I didn't come here to kick him off the team," Fury tells Steve. "If the team falls apart, that's on me, so I trust the rest of you to hold it together. I came here to make sure you were doing just that."

Steve blinks. "Oh," he says.

"It's nice to finally meet you, James," Fury adds, crossing the room to shake Bucky's hand.

"You too, sir," Bucky says. It feels like a  _sir_  sort of situation.

Fury's gaze wander up Bucky's arm, his face curiously blank as he releases Bucky's hand. "I think we should sit down someday, talk about a few things," he says, dragging his gaze away from Bucky's arm as he does. "I'll get in touch with you. And Steve?"

"Sir?"

"I don't like being kept out of the loop."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Fury nods, just once, and Bucky and Steve both automatically move out of his way so he can get to the door. When he's gone, all the tension drains from the room and Steve cracks a smile, looking sheepish. "I think we just avoided getting grounded," he says.

"He always that intense?"

"Pretty much," Steve laughs. The sound dies away fast, concern once again drawing Steve's eyebrows together. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Bucky says, because he does. In fact, the moment he'd noticed Fury on the couch, Bucky had forgotten all about what happened back at his parents' house. He doesn't feel shaky, his head doesn't hurt. He feels— perfectly fine. Like it never happened.

"Good." Steve's arms wrap around his waist. "You scared the hell out of me, Buck."

"Won't happen again," Bucky promises, but even as the words come out of his mouth, something in his gut tells him that's a promise he won't be able to keep.

 

-o-

 

Bucky is on edge. Bucky's been on edge for  _days_ , and it's not helping that he's been avoiding Steve as much as possible. He can't sleep, is the thing. Every time he crawls into bed, even after a day of exhausting himself in hopes that he'll pass out the moment he hits the mattress, he finds himself waking up again too soon, the dreams leaving him sticky with sweat and panicking, though he doesn't know why.

They're getting worse. Every time, he's in that room again, at that table, that folder in front of him. Every time, he wakes up forgetting exactly what it is that's making him panic. He stops letting Steve stay over after the first time it happens, can't bring himself to invite Steve into this. There's something wrong, but there's something wrong with  _Bucky_  and Steve doesn't need to be part of it.

He's aware of the fact that he's being a hypocrite, but until he figures this out for himself, he's not dragging Steve into it. Which means that he's been keeping Steve at arm's length lately, no matter how much it kills him to do so, because Steve will see right through him if he doesn't.

He gives in, a few months too late, and makes an appointment with one of the therapists his mother suggested back when he first got home, but it's not scheduled until after his birthday. Until then, Bucky is dealing with this the best way he can— by not dealing it with. At all.

"Something on your mind?" Natasha asks, her hands on Bucky's punching bag, stopping it from swaying with each blow.

Bucky blinks at her. He hadn't noticed her come in. When he got here earlier, the gym had been empty (and he's not really sure when this became his place to work out, instead of the gym in his own building, but he'd taken a cab over here earlier this morning, needing to take his mind off things, and hadn't thought about it too much).

"No," Bucky says automatically.

"Am I supposed to believe that?"

Bucky sighs and punches at the bag again. He should know better than to try and lie to Natasha. "What do you want?" he asks. "Did Steve ask you to talk to me?"

"Not everything is related to Steve," she teases. "Am I not allowed to ask how you're doing for personal reasons, without an ulterior motive?"

It takes Bucky a second to read between the lines and realize that what she's actually saying is  _I can care about you too, you know_ , and it throws him off enough that his next punch skims off the bag, barely connecting.

"I'm just working out," he says anyway.

"And you didn't notice me come in."

"I was busy."

"Distracted," Natasha counters.

"I'm distracted  _now_."

"Does this have to do with what you told us about not remembering things?"

Bucky freezes. He should've anticipated this. Steve will see right through Bucky because Steve knows him, but Natasha sees through everything. It's unsettling, and impressive, and he grudgingly respects that talent as much as he hates it.

"No," he lies.

She doesn't believe him. "If it's something that could affect the team—"

"It won't," Bucky snaps.

"Good. Because I know you don't want anyone to get hurt any more than I want to let you," she says. "So if something is going on that might affect us, you need to speak up. You don't have to go into detail, but you have to warn us."

Guilt shakes Bucky at his core but he still says, "I know. And I will."

Natasha nods. "You know," she says, releasing Bucky's punching bag, "if you need to talk, Steve's not the only one willing to listen."

Bucky's lips twitch. "Really."

"There's Clint," she offers. "Or Sam. Sam is good to talk to. Bruce, if you catch him in the right mood. I wouldn't suggest Tony, but Thor is great if you need cheering up."

"What about you?"

Natasha shrugs. "Not all of us got into this with our hands as clean as Steve's. Steve is a good person, but that can make it harder to talk to him. If you need someone to talk to without that kind of upstanding morality hanging over you, you have options."

There're questions that Bucky has no right to ask on the tip of his tongue; he swallows them down. He doesn't know about her past but he wants to, only that's not something he's earned yet, and he gets the feeling Natasha is the kind of person that you'll never be allowed to know if you ask instead of letting her tell you on her own.

"I'll remember that the next time I have something to talk about," Bucky says. He thinks he's become that kind of person too.

"Spar?" Natasha suggests instead of pushing.

Bucky grins. "If you think you can—" A ringing cuts him off and Bucky doesn't immediately realize that it's coming from him. The cellphone is a new addition and he's not exactly used to it yet. "One second," he says to Natasha as he pulls it out, and then, "Hello?"

"James," his mother greets, sounding like her typical self: brisk and formal. "This isn't a bad time, I hope."

"No," Bucky says as Natasha makes her way to the mat, discreetly offering him privacy. "What's up?"

"I'm looking over the invitation list for your party," his mother says, which is not at all what he's expecting. "It's just that— are you— is this really what you want?"

Bucky's never heard his mother stumble over her words before, and that's not the only thing making him feeling unsteady. "List?" he asks.

"The list you sent me yesterday."

Bucky can't breathe. He has to turn his back before Natasha looks over her shoulder and sees the look on his face, the confusion and the fear.  _List_ , he thinks. What list? He doesn't remember writing out a list. He doesn't remember  _sending_  her a list.

It's like the envelope all over again, and all he can do is ask, "What about it?" sounding as strangled as he feels.

"Usually you request that your father and I stay as far away from your party as possible. I recall you suggesting Peru, once," she says dryly, just a hint of humor underneath it.

"So?" Bucky bites out.

" _So_ ," his mother repeats, not pleased by his tone, "I was wondering why you decided to include your father in the invitation list."

"I." Bucky tries to swallow but his mouth is so dry. "I— have to go," he says, panic rising. "I'm sorry. This is a bad time."

"Excuse me? I thought you said—"

"I'll call you later," Bucky all but shouts, hanging up the moment the words are out.

Bucky lowers his phone to his side, staring unseeingly at the wall of the gym. The conversation plays over and over in his mind, not making any more sense than it had when it was happening. The blank places in his memory suddenly seem vast and overwhelming. How much is he missing? And how much if it is still happening? He doesn't remember writing the list. Doesn't remember sending it. How many other things has he done that he can't remember?

"Are we fighting or not?" Natasha calls from behind him.

He can't fix it, Bucky tells himself. That's his excuse for not dwelling on it, for not telling someone. There's nothing anyone can do to fix it, so what's the point? He's tried, and tried, and tried until he was clutching his toilet and throwing up everything in his stomach, yet he can't access those dark spots in his mind. At some point, he has to admit defeat, and he's all too happy to do it right now.

Natasha offers a wonderful distraction in the form of physical violence, and Bucky takes it. He likes fighting with her because she's good enough that he doesn't have to worry about accidentally hurting her, but she's also not Steve, which means he has slightly less qualms about attacking her. She's ruthless, uses everything she can against him, and Bucky does the same to her.

She has two pins on him, he has two pins on her, when she leaves her side vulnerable. It's on purpose, Bucky knows it is, knows he's being baited, but he also knows how she fights. Bucky will try to kick her, she'll jump back, and that momentary movement will throw off her balance enough for him to tackle her. It'll throw him off balance, too, which is exactly why she's doing it, but if he moves fast enough he can win this.

He goes for it, throwing just enough force into the kick to make it seem real but not enough to seriously hurt her, and— it connects, striking her right where she's left herself unguarded. Bucky is so surprised by it that he stumbles, and she takes him down swiftly while he's struggling to find his balance.

"What the hell was that?" Bucky asks, trying to catch his breath with his back flat on the mat and Natasha poised on top of him. "You were supposed to dodge."

Natasha doesn't grin like she usually does when she wins. The way she's holding herself, he can tell that she's wounded by the kick, not as impervious to pain as she sometimes makes herself seem, which is why her move makes no sense to him. That kind of kick, coming from someone so much larger than her, should never have landed. She had to have seen it coming, had to know that the best move would be to avoid it and she definitely had time to do so, but she still let him land it.

"Running might be easy," Natasha says as she climbs to her feet, "but it's not always the most effective way to go." She finally grins. "I win, by the way."

Bucky stares up at her, more than aware that they're not talking about the fight, only he refuses to rise to her bait again. "Best two out of three," he says.

She sighs and offers him a hand up.

 

-o-

 

Bucky's head just isn't in it in the days leading up to his birthday. He talks to his mother again when he's a little calmer, apologizes for hanging up on her, and stops avoiding Steve because it takes too much effort when he doesn't even want to do it in the first place.

Surprisingly, Steve doesn't seem to notice Bucky's weird mood, and it takes Bucky a few days to realize that it's because Steve has something on his mind, too. He's distracted a lot, falls quiet more than Bucky is used to, and Bucky would think something was wrong if it wasn't for Sam's assurances that Steve is fine.

"You're hiding something," Bucky says two days before his birthday, when he and Steve are on Steve's couch, a movie playing in the background despite the fact that neither of them is actually watching it.

Steve freezes, his hand in Bucky's hair stilling. "What?"

Bucky sits up, a grin sliding onto his face. "This is about my birthday, isn't it?" he guesses, and Steve shakes his head fast, eyes wide.  _Gotcha_. "You've always been shit at surprises, you know that?"

"I am not," Steve argues.

"You are. Remember in ninth grade when you got me Linkin Park tickets for my birthday and you spent the entire week leading up to it getting all jumpy and humming the songs under your breath? Because this feels an awful lot like that, Steve, so what is it, huh? What're you planning?"

"I'm not planning anything," Steve says. Steve  _lies_. Bucky knows him too well to buy it and raises his eyebrows to let Steve know. "I'm  _not_."

"Then why are you being weird?"

"I'm not being weird. I'm thinking."

"About my birthday surprise?"

Steve shoves at him, laughing, and says, "I'm not getting you anything for your birthday, so if I'm thinking about anything, it's your birthday disappointment, not surprise."

"You're not getting me  _anything_?"

"Nope."

"Some boyfriend you are," Bucky mutters, pretending to be put out.

Steve groans, literally collapsing on Bucky's body, all two hundred and however many pounds pinning Bucky to the couch. He keeps groaning too, loud and annoying, crushing Bucky like the childish idiot he is.

"Will you _stop_?" Bucky complains, half-heartedly attempting to push him away.

Steve doesn't move off of him but he stops making that annoying noise and starts kissing Bucky's neck instead. The mood shifts slightly, Bucky still laughing from Steve's idiotic display as heat starts to spread through him. Steve's lips— Steve's  _mouth_ , all of him, it drives Bucky crazy, always has. Right now isn't an exception.

By the time Steve's lips find Bucky's, Bucky is no longer laughing or complaining about Steve being on top of him. Steve adjusts a bit, getting a leg on both sides of Bucky's body, and yeah. He  _definitely_  isn't complaining.

The couch creaks under them as Bucky's hand finds its way under the back of Steve's shirt and Steve shifts on top of him. He can't ever get enough of Steve's back— of Steve, period. He traces the length of Steve's spine as Steve's tongue brushes against his, slow and languid. The noise of the TV in the background miles away, drowned out by the sloppy sounds their mouths make as they slide together.

Steve moves on top of him again, no longer trying to get comfortable. It's deliberate, the way he grinds down on Bucky, and Bucky can't help but react, hold Steve's hips steady and move against him. There's nothing frantic about it, no tugging at clothes or gasping into each other's mouths; it's slower, calmer, a simmering starting in his gut that builds until it feels like he's burning up from Steve's touch.

His fingers slip under the back of Steve's jeans, his boxers, until he's got a handful of Steve's ass. He uses that to guide Steve, move him just right so every time he rolls his hips there's the perfect amount of friction. It's not exactly comfortable, his cock trapped inside his jeans, but he figures he can come like this, just like this, and be goddamn happy for it.

Steve seems to feel differently.

"Buck?"

"Mm?" Bucky tilts his head back, appreciating how amazing Steve looks on top of him, brighter than the sun and infinitely more beautiful. He meets Steve's eyes and sees the question there, but he doesn't really understand it until Steve pointedly grinds down on him again, and then it hits him. Hits him  _hard_.

"Want to…?"

Steve doesn't finish the question out loud. He might whine like there's no tomorrow when Bucky's lips wrap around his cock, and he might spread himself out on the bed like a present missing nothing but the bow, but there's a difference when it comes to vocalizing what he wants.

"Wanna what, Steve?" Bucky teases, giving his ass a hard squeeze for good measure.

"Don't be an asshole."

"I can't read your mind, sweetheart," Bucky reminds him, even if he can, in this case. "What do you want?"

Steve glares down at him, flushing, and Bucky grins stupidly up at him until, with a huff, Steve gets off him.

"Wait," Bucky pleads, scrambling to sit up. Steve is already in the hallway. "Steve, come on," Bucky yells after him. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm a jerk, I'm sorry."

Steve doesn't come back right away. Bucky stares down the hallway, biting his lip and feeling like an ass, but he doesn't get up and follow Steve to the room. If Steve is genuinely pissed at him, he likely doesn't want Bucky barging into his room when he went in there to get away. The only thing Bucky can do is sit and wait it out until Steve's ready to come argue with him instead.

It doesn't take as long as Bucky is expecting. The door opens not a minute later and Steve comes out, shirt discarded at some point when he was in there. He's still glaring when he gets to the living room and slaps something down on the table, and then he crawls back on top of Bucky, hands flat on Bucky's chest.

"Can you read my mind now?"

Bucky eyes the bottle of lube— open, almost a fourth of the contents gone— and nods. "Think so," he says.

"Good." Steve kisses him again, this time more hurried than before.

Bucky gets his shirt off, too, wanting the press of Steve's naked chest against his own. He tries to flip them over afterwards, with his lips on Steve's collarbone, but Steve fights him on it, pushes him back so he's once again lying on the couch.

It's hardly the first time they've fooled around, but it's the first time they've gone this far. The weight of that settles on him as heavily as Steve's body and it makes his hands shake a little as he undoes the buttons of Steve's jeans, but at least Steve is slightly more of a mess than he is. He nearly trips as he gets up to shuck his pants, cheeks red and his jaw clenched like he's waiting for Bucky to tease him again. Bucky is a little too busy trying to get naked to bother, and he doesn't think he would right now anyway. He and Steve give each other a lot of shit, sure, but they both know better than to cross the line.

To be fair, the couch is probably not the best place for them to fuck. Probably, Bucky should've followed Steve to his room when he got up earlier, but by the time Steve gets back on top of him, nothing left to separate their bodies, Bucky doesn't give enough of a shit to ask Steve to relocate. The couch probably won't survive this but Bucky will buy him a new one.

Steve, naked, is something Bucky will never get used to or take for granted. His smooth skin, strong muscles, how he blushes just the same as he did when he was ninety pounds and all skin and bones. They're moving towards a goal here, and he knows it, but that doesn't mean he can't take his time getting there. He kisses Steve like they've got hours to burn and nothing better to do, his hand trapped between their bodies, admiring Steve's abs before he moves up to brush his thumb along one of Steve's nipples.

Steve makes a small sound into his mouth, quiet enough Bucky almost misses it. He doesn't, though, and he pushes Steve back with the hand on his chest until Steve is hovering over him, and then he props himself up on his left arm and takes that same nipple in his mouth, reveling in the way Steve tips his head back and groans.

"You sure you want to do this now?" Bucky asks as his other hand wanders down Steve's back, over the swell of his ass again. "On your couch?"

Steve's chin drops and his eyebrows raise. "Would you rather the floor?"

"I was thinking maybe your  _bed_ , actually, but—"

"Too far," Steve shoots down. "Couch or floor. Or coffee table."

Bucky snorts a laugh, looks at the coffee table, and says, "If you plan on needing firewood soon."

Steve laughs too, as if he's not naked, sitting on Bucky, their cocks dragging together when he moves just right. It's so easy, almost too easy, for them to be together like this. The nerves pass quickly and all that's left is Steve and Bucky, how they've always been: affectionately teasing and pushing each other's buttons just to see the other squirm.

The angle isn't great when Bucky leans over, slicks up his fingers, and circles Steve's hole, but Steve's head is tucked into his neck and he's panting in ways he never does when they work out, so Bucky thinks he's doing alright. This far they've gone already, and he knows how Steve likes it, slow and dragged out, crying out when Bucky finally curls his fingers just right.

Bucky is so fucking hard, can feel precome smearing between his and Steve's stomachs, but it doesn't matter. They've got time, and Bucky has enough patience to wait it out until Steve  _does_  squirm, breath hot on Bucky's neck as he pants, "I'm good. I'm  _good_ , Buck, hurry up."

Bucky is patient. Steve is not.

"You sure?" Bucky asks, pressing a kiss to Steve's temple. Steve bites at his neck for that, a little too hard to be simply playful. "Alright, alright. Jeez, Steve." He pauses. "Um, we need—" A condom falls onto Bucky's chest and he can't help laughing again. "And Captain America saves the dayy."

Steve rolls his eyes, grimacing a little when Bucky retracts his fingers. Getting the condom open turns out to be a problem, given his slick fingers, but Steve takes it from him and Bucky's breath catches as Steve rolls it onto him, an intent, overly-focused look on his face that Bucky can't help but try to smooth out with his left hand, tracing the lines in Steve's forehead until they're gone.

When Steve sinks down on him, it takes Bucky's breath away— in a good way, for once. The tight warmth of Steve's body, the way Steve is balancing atop him, one hand on Bucky's chest, the way the sunlight coming in hits his hair and illuminates his face: it's overwhelming.

"I love you," Bucky blurts before he can stop himself.

Steve, face scrunched up a bit, nails scratching at Bucky's chest as he tries to adjust to Bucky's cock inside of him, cracks a smile. "Are you saying that because we're having sex?"

"I'm saying it because I mean it," Bucky says, rough and ragged, "and because we're having sex."

Steve laughs, rolls his eyes a bit, but he doesn't reply. Instead he moves his hips just so, and Bucky can't think anymore anyway. Steve is fucking amazing, those gorgeous thighs of his making it easier for him to ride Bucky like it's his goddamn day job. Bucky's had sex before, good sex, but it wasn't with Steve. It wasn't like this. Consuming and slow, more about feeling than getting to the finish line, about the way they move together than either of them trying to get off quick.

Bucky can't just sit and let Steve do all the work, though. He grips Steve's hips tight in his hands and fucks up into him hard, hard enough that Steve's breath catches on a gasp and he slumps forward, giving Bucky the momentum he needs to take over. It doesn't take him long to find the right angle, the right rhythm, to take Steve apart, but he can't even feel smug about it because he's falling to pieces right along with him.

"I— I love you too," Steve moans, his eyes closed. There's sweat slicking every place their bodies touch and Bucky can taste Steve on his lips, feel him everywhere, can't hear anything but the slap of their bodies connecting and Steve's unsteady breathing. "I love you."

"Saying that… just because… we're having sex?"

"Definitely," Steve says, trying to grin, but Bucky holds him down and grinds up into him and the smile falls away, leaves his mouth hanging open. "Like that," Steve groans, both an order and a plead. "God, Buck. Like that."

He can feel Steve's cock dragging between them, pressed between their stomachs, and Steve won't move enough for Bucky to get a hand on him. He feels so close to the edge, knows he's not going to last much longer, only he needs Steve to come first, needs to make this just as good for Steve as it is for him.

And just like that, rutting between their bodies as Bucky fucks him, Steve comes before Bucky can get a hand on him. He clenches tight, stilling completely, and Bucky can't take it. He's been close since the moment Steve stomped out of the room with the lube in hand, and it's a miracle he's lasted until now as it is.

It's probably a little gross, how long they stay pressed together after coming down from their high. Bucky unconsciously rubs at Steve's back as his mind struggles to reboot. He can't remember ever feeling so satisfied in his fucking life.

They can't stay like this forever, but Steve looks even less thrilled by the idea of moving than Bucky. "Come on, Stevie," Bucky says, carefully sitting up with Steve still on top of him, still surrounding him. "We gotta get cleaned up."

Steve has this glazed look in his eyes. "Yeah," he says, sounding almost drunk. He blinks and his eyes clear, but he's still unsteady.

Bucky can't help the twinge of loss when he finally pulls out of Steve's body and Steve climbs off of him. It goes away the moment he stands up, though, when Steve leans into him like he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up and kisses Bucky with everything he has.

Steve's shower is nowhere near big enough for the two of them, and it's pretty damn obvious, but that means nothing to Steve and Bucky. They squeeze, make it work, and Bucky gets on his knees halfway through just to get that sated look back in Steve's eyes.

By the time they get to Steve's bed, still wet, neither bothering with clothes again, Bucky knows he's going to sleep and, for the first time in what feels like weeks, he has a feeling he won't be waking up in a panic from his dreams.


	14. Chapter 14

 

"Are you sure you want me to meet you there?"

"Yeah," Bucky says, looking at himself in the mirror, phone stuck between his shoulder and his ear. "I promised the girls I'd have cake with them before the party, since they're not invited. Mom doesn't want them anywhere near it, but they're not happy. Figured I'd console them a bit with too much sugar."

Steve laughs, bordering on nervous. "Tell them I said hello."

"I will," Bucky promises. He smirks at his reflection. "Still not gonna tell me the surprise?"

"There's no surprise, Buck," Steve sighs, sounding damn near genuine. Only Bucky knows him better than that.

"Whatever you say, Steve."

"I have to go," Steve says abruptly. "I love you. I'll see you at the party."

"Love you, too," Bucky just manages to get out before Steve hangs up on him.

He snorts, tossing his phone onto his bed, and takes another look at himself, Steve's antics leaving his mouth turned up. The clean shave makes him look younger than normal, years scrapped off his face with a razor. His hair is still long, still a little wild looking, but he likes it. He could rent an entire apartment for the price of the suit he's wearing. The grey of it is a nice change from the typical, and the fitting accentuates his shoulders.

He looks good. He feels good. Can't even tell, looking at him in the mirror, that he hadn't slept for more than an hour last night, or that he'd woken up terrified by the things he couldn't remember. In the mirror, he could be anyone. His life could be anything. He doesn't have to be a man plagued by his past and the things inside his mind he can't access.

Bucky turns away from the mirror before his smile diminishes, choosing instead to focus on what's to come. The party, Steve, the celebration just for him.  _Steve_. He's tried to figure out what the hell Steve is planning for days and he just can't. Bucky isn't exactly easy to buy for, not when he can buy everything he needs or wants himself, and Steve's birthday gifts have always been personal because of it. Something special, though not necessarily  _expensive._

Whatever it is, he knows it'll be good.

He grabs his wallet and stuffs it into his pocket just before the knock at his door comes. Bucky's eyes narrow a bit, remembering earlier today when someone had knocked at his door. The package he'd had to sign for then is still sitting on his kitchen counter, and Bucky makes a mental note to throw something at Tony for the hideous joke he'd sent: a bundle of red and blue nylon that Bucky will never, not even at gun point, wear.

He's still glaring when he answers the door, expecting another joke-gift because the only person who ever comes by just agreed to meet at him at the party.

It's not another deliveryman and Bucky makes a surprised sound before taking a step back, and then another, a cold kind of fear slicing into him.

"Happy birthday, James," Alexander Pierce says as he steps into Bucky's apartment without being invited. Bucky recognizes him instantly, the moment the fear dissipates enough to clear his head and let confusion take its place. "You know, most people show a little more hospitality than this."

The door shuts and Bucky stumbles back again, every bit of his training failing him. "What are you—?"

"Is this how you treat all your guests?"

"How did you get in here?" Bucky demands, his entire body vibrating. It's like that night back at his parents' house, when he collapsed in the bathroom. He feels like he's going to be sick, a wave of nausea hitting him hard. His mind whirls, trying to process what's wrong, but it fails to come up with an explanation. "The doorman's supposed to—"

"Money can get you most things, as I'm sure you've noticed, given the privileged upbringing you've had," Alexander informs him, winking like they're old friends. "Unfortunately," he adds as he moves towards Bucky, "loyalty isn't one of them. I've realized over the years that loyalty can't be bought, or persuaded, or forced. But control? That's an entirely different story. Look at you, you're a shining example."

Bucky gropes for his phone, for a way to call for help, until he remembers that it's back in his room. He swallows, bile rising up in his throat. "What do you want?"

"I came to retrieve a weapon of mine," Alexander says, his eyes locking with Bucky's. Bucky flinches at the cold possessiveness he finds there. It reminds him of the look his father had on his face when he'd bought that restored 1937 Bugatti.

"What weapon?"

Alexander smiles. Bucky's eyes catch on something pinned to Pierce's coat, almost hidden by his collar. The symbol engraved on it is sickeningly familiar. "It's called the Winter Soldier."

At those words, all the pieces of Bucky's mind slot into place and his vision whites out.

 

-o-

 

"If you're stressing out about it this much, maybe it's not a good idea."

Steve turns to Sam, trying to glare, but that's never worked all that well on him. Sam isn't easily intimidated, and, when it comes down to it, Steve isn't really trying. "I'm not stressing," he lies, staring out Sam's windshield as he fusses with his tie, knowing that Bucky'll want to fix it the second he gets to the Barnes family home.

Sam's tie looks perfect, the gold stripes making his brown eyes look even darker. He looks good, and Steve would tell him as much, if Sam wasn't being an ass about this. But he is, so Steve keeps his compliments to himself. Mostly. He might've mentioned Sam looking good when he first arrived to pick Steve up, but it won't happen again.

"Your creepy neck vein is bulging, Steve. You're stressing."

"I'm not asking him to marry me," Steve says, as much for his own benefit as it is for Sam's. "I'm asking him to move in with me. It's not a big deal."

"Maybe it's not," Sam allows, in that patient way he has that would drive Steve crazy, coming from anyone else, but from Sam it's just— nice. Familiar. It keeps him grounded.  _Sam_  keeps him grounded, "but I think Bucky would rather you  _not_  have an aneurism on his birthday."

Steve rolls his eyes and changes the subject. "What'd you get him?" he asks.

Sam grins. When traffic slows to a stop, he reaches into the back, pulls out a box covered in gold wrapping paper, and drops it into Steve's lap. "Open it," he says.

Steve lifts the lid, apprehensive, and snorts a laugh the moment he realizes what's inside. "They already have a bobblehead?"

He picks it up, examining the thing. It's small, just a few inches tall, and weighs practically nothing. The metal arm is missing, obviously, because Bucky hides it whenever they fight, but everything else is familiar. The hair, the mask, the dark clothing. Bucky Barnes: a perfect replica, right down to his giant, oversized head. Of all the Avengers merchandise, the bobbleheads are definitely Steve's favorite.

"It's a prototype," Sam admits. "Had to beg Tony to pull some strings to get it, but it's worth it. I can't wait to see Bucky's face when I give him that thing."

"I wish I would've thought of something like this," Steve says, carefully replacing the lid on the box.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "It's not like you plan on surprising him with something as huge as asking him to move in with you. You're a terrible boyfriend. Bucky deserves better."

Steve tries to laugh but it doesn't come out the way he wants it to. He can't remember being this nervous since— since New Year's, and look how that ended. Maybe Sam has a point. Maybe this isn't a great idea, if he's this conflicted about it.

But he's not, really. He's not conflicted about asking Bucky to move in with him. He wants that, more than anything. They spend most nights in each other's beds anyway, and Steve gets a little too happy when Bucky isn't around but he finds one of Bucky's shirts lying on his floor, or Bucky's hairbrush resting on his sink. A reminder that he's been there and he'll be back.

It just makes sense for them to move in together, but it might not make sense to Bucky. For all Steve knows, this is going way too fast and he's going to scare Bucky off.

"Steve, come on," Sam says, teasingly exasperated. "The guy is grossly in love with you. I haven't even known him a whole year and I still know that he's gonna say yes. Hell, I think he'd say yes even if you  _did_  ask him to marry you. You've got nothing to worry about."

Steve tries and fails to fight off a grin. "Why don't you pay attention to the road?" he suggests.

Sam winks at him and does as he's told.

The scene outside of Bucky's parents' house, when they arrive, is less hectic than it normally is. Bucky's birthday parties have always had a more exclusive guest list than any other affair his parents throw, and it's obvious the moment they pull up when the driveway isn't packed and people aren't filtering into the house like salmon struggling to get upstream. They might be early, sure, but that doesn't normally make much of a difference.

"Damn." Sam lets out an appreciative whistle as he looks up at the house. "How many friends you got that  _aren't_  billionaires?"

"You."

"Jackass. This place is bigger than my apartment building, Steve."

"Nicer, too."

"Okay, get out of my car."

"Pull around to the side, first," Steve directs.

"What kind of scene are we about to walk into here?" Sam asks as he parks the car. "Do I have to call people 'sir'? How many forks are there gonna be?"

"I don't know," Steve admits, frowning down at his suit. "His birthday parties aren't usually so… formal. They've never had a dress code before, unless you count the Beach Bash he threw one year."

"In the middle of March?"

"They have an indoor pool."

"Of course they do."

Steve's nerves don't extend to this, thankfully. He's been to these things way too many times to be intimidated by their stuffy atmosphere and sneering attendees. Growing up, Steve got the best of both worlds. He got to live the high-profile life at Bucky's side, with the ridiculous parties and extravagant vacations and expensive restaurants, and then he got to go home to a quiet apartment with just him and his mom. He knows what it's like to be at either side of the spectrum and has an appreciation for both, even if he knows he could never handle this kind of life full-time.

The doormen open the doors for Steve immediately, not even bothering to ask for an invitation or to check the guest list. Sam doesn't whistle again at the grand foyer that lives up to its name, but his eyes do widen just a bit, and he does mutter, "I better be getting something way better than a bobblehead for  _my_  birthday if this is the kind of place he's living in."

"You'll get a giftcard," Steve says, heading for the ballroom. "Bucky can't buy gifts. They're always terrible."

Steve isn't at all surprised to find the ballroom nearly empty aside from a handful of staff members setting up circular tables around the room, each big enough to seat six and draped in pristine white tablecloths. What he  _is_  surprised by is the room itself. The chairs are painted gold. The cutlery is gold. The centerpieces are vases filled with sand, topped with branches that have also, shockingly, been painted gold.

This isn't at all what Steve has come to expect from Bucky's birthday parties. They tend to be the a little… wilder than what his parents normally throw. The guest list rarely includes anyone over the age of thirty. The music is always too loud and too heavy and the decorations tend to be more colourful. This is— reserved. Elegant. Stuffy. None of it feels like Bucky, how he was or how he is. There are  _place cards_ , for god's sake.

Steve examines the nearest and one and finds Natasha's name engraved on it in gold, swirling letters, and snorts to himself, wondering if Bucky had any say in this at all. And then he spots his own name, between Clint and Bruce at the same table, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up a little. It's the first sign that something's wrong.

He can't find Bucky's name amongst the ones at his own table and it takes him a minute of walking around the room to find it at one near the window, Bucky's father's name to the left of it and an unfamiliar one on the right.

"Something wrong?" Sam asks, picking up on Steve's confusion.

"We're seated on opposite sides of the room," Steve says, Bucky's place card still in his hand.

"You sure?" Sam takes the card and looks just as lost as Steve. "Why would he do that?"

"Maybe he didn't," Steve says. "Maybe his mom—"

"Steve!"

Speak of the devil, Steve thinks, and then he mentally chastises himself. Bucky's mother is a lovely and kind woman. Steve sends her flowers every mother's day and he can't remember the last holiday he spent without getting an invitation from her to join them. When Bucky was gone, in that first year before the team got together, he doubts he would've been able to hold himself together without her. She planned his mother's funeral when Steve couldn't even get out of bed.

"I knew you'd be here early," she says, wrapping him up in the usual hug, smelling like that sharp perfume she's worn since he was little. Bucky has her eyes. And her cheekbones. "Who's your friend?"

"Sam Wilson, ma'am," Sam says, offering his hand.

"Such a gentleman," she says, looking a little flustered as Sam takes her hand and kisses the back of it. Steve would roll his eyes if that charm hadn't worked on him, too, when he and Sam first met. "Have either of you seen my son?"

That's the second sign that something's wrong.

"He said he'd meet me here," Steve tells her, trying not to worry.

"Of course he did," she sighs. "My son _would_  be late to his own birthday party."

"He's not here?"

"Oh, he could be," she admits. "I haven't had time to look. I'm sure he's off with the girls somewhere. You'll probably find them in the kitchen, if you want to check. But if you do find him, be a dear and send him out here, would you? I want to have a word with him. I know it's his party but he can't send me an email an hour beforehand asking me to change the seating arrangements. Dinner, specialty drinks, live music; I can handle planning all that but he can't honestly expect me to move Jonathan Bouchard to his table and leave his fiancé behind. That would be impossibly rude."

Sign number three, and Steve trusts his instincts enough to believe them when they tell him something's wrong.

"Who did he ask you to move?" Steve asks, reminding himself to stay calm.

"Oh, just a handful of people. Businessmen, mostly. I think he's finally starting to take an interest in the family company, and making connections is certainly a good place to start, but I've had the seating plan made up for  _days_  and now everything's such a mess."

"Why don't  _you_  check the kitchen for him," Steve suggests, "and if he's not there, I'll give him a call."

"Good idea," Bucky's mother says. "I should go talk to his father, too. I want to make sure that his gift is ready. I'd tell you what it is, but we all know you can't keep a secret, Steve." She winks before pressing a kiss to his cheek and walking off.

"Why does everyone think that?" Steve asks Sam.

"That you can't keep a secret? Probably 'cause you can't."

Steve rolls his eyes and waits until Bucky's mother is out of sight to check the rest of the names at Bucky's table. None of them are familiar, no one Bucky used to hang out with. He recognizes Bucky's name, and Bucky's father's. Everyone else is a mystery, and Steve can't help but be a little hurt that Bucky doesn't want Steve sitting beside him.

Not just hurt. Worried. "Something feels off," Steve says to Sam, looking for him to confirm the feeling in Steve's gut.

"I know what you mean," Sam agrees. "Those chairs are tacky as hell."

Steve sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm going to go look for him," he says. "Guests should start arriving soon. If you see Bucky, tell him I'm looking for him."

"You're going to leave me here all alone?"

"You see the year on that wine over there?" Steve nods at the table set up along one side of the room, closer to where the floor is left bare, all of the smaller tables concentrated to one side to leave room for dancing, most likely. "Knock yourself out until I get back."

Sam's eyes widen a bit. "I guess being friends with you _does_  have its perks."

"Don't act like you don't love me."

"I'm only using you for your boyfriend's money, Steve. I'm sorry."

Steve brings his phone to his ear and turns his back on Sam, knowing Sam will be fine. The others will be here soon, and Sam is charming and good with people. Even if Natasha and the others don't show up first, he'll strike up conversation with whoever does. Steve wouldn't leave him behind if he wasn't confident in that.

He takes a quick look into the kitchen and finds Bucky's mother chatting with the kitchen staff, no Bucky in sight, and keeps going as his phone rings. And rings. By the time he makes it to one of the family rooms, he's reached Bucky's voicemail: an impersonal thing that reads out the number instead of Bucky's name.

"Hey, it's Steve," he says into the phone, looking around like he's expecting Bucky to be hiding behind the sofa or something. "I'm at your place. Call me back."

He checks most of the main floor, knowing which rooms Bucky would be in and which he wouldn't, and doesn't find him. He can hear guests starting to arrive, their voices struggling to carry through the enormous house, and climbs the stairs two at a time.

Bucky's old room is empty, with no signs of anyone being inside recently. Steve frowns, touches the phone in his pocket as if he can somehow convince Bucky to call back with nothing but willpower, and decides to try calling again. He's not all that surprised when he doesn't get an answer. The cell phone is relatively new and Bucky hates the thing. He cracked the screen within a week of getting it and he can't figure out how to change his ringtones back from the ones Natasha set for him. The fact that he's not answering isn't really reason to panic. There's probably an explanation for it.

"Me again," Steve says to Bucky's voicemail. "Like I said, I'm at your place. People are starting to arrive. I guess I'll see you, um. I'll see you in the ball room. At my table. On the other side of the room from you. Which I don't mind, by the way. I'm a little surprised, but it's fine. I'm sure you have your reasons. And I'm— Yeah. I'm gonna hang up now. Call me back."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. His nerves are strung tight again, knotting his stomach and making him feel shaky and jumpy. He tries to tell himself that it's still only because he's nervous about asking Bucky to move in with him, but he knows, deep down, that it's not. Steve trusts his gut; his gut says something is wrong. He doesn't know  _what_ , exactly, but something.

He shakes himself, smooths down the front of his suit and makes his way back downstairs.

The ballroom is less empty when he steps through the doors this time. It's not packed, not by a long shot, but he estimates about thirty people, in total, most milling around the tables, looking for their seats or searching for a glass of wine. Bucky isn't amongst them.

He spots Natasha first, her glittering gold dress catching more eyes than just Steve's. She has a champagne glass in one hand and a frown on her face as she crosses the room, Clint trailing after her the moment he realizes she's leaving him behind.

"What is it?" she asks, worry making her tone sharp.

Steve is smart enough not to lie to her. "Something's off," he says. "Bucky's late. He told me he'd meet me here but I can't find him and he's not answering his phone."

Natasha tilts her head to the side, getting close enough to Steve that no one can eavesdrop on their conversation. "Do you know who that man is?" she asks, nodding discreetly to someone by the refreshments table, his body turned away from Steve at an angle, only his profile visible.

"No," Steve admits.

"What about her?" This time she nods to an older woman with her hair twisted up in a tight, immaculate bun. Steve shakes his head. "It's a good thing you're not a spy," Natasha mutters. "You'd be terrible at it."

"Let's say, hypothetically," Clint interrupts, "that someone made a list of the, like, top ten most important people in the city. People with the most money, most influence, most connections or whatever. If a list like that existed, at least eight of the people who would be on it are in this room right now. She's one of them."

"That seem a little weird to you, Steve?" Natasha asks. "I never got the feeling that this is Bucky's 'crowd'."

Steve's jaw clenches. "Something is up," Steve says lowly. "I'm calling him again. Keep an eye out."

Natasha nods. She scans the crowd expertly, looking no different than any of the other rich women in the room with her expensive gown and the haughty look on her face. Clint slips his arm through hers, playing the part of her disinterested date as he pulls out his phone and flips through it, no doubt contacting the others.

Steve gets Bucky's voicemail again. Sam walks up to him before he can leave a message, taking one look at Steve's face and guessing, "You still haven't found him, huh?"

"You haven't seen him?"

"Not yet. Everything okay? Some guys at the table over there were talking. Sounded weird."

"Weird how?"

Sam shrugs. "Confused, mostly. Didn't really understand why they'd been invited, but they said they couldn't decline an invitation from the Barnes' so they came anyway."

"I'm sure Bucky will explain when he gets here," Steve says, but he can't tell if he's saying it for Sam, or for himself.

The doors open and Steve perks up, trying to see if it's Bucky, but it's not. Tony walks into the room, Pepper on his arm, with Bruce slinking after them like he's trying to avoid the spotlight that Tony seems to carry with him everywhere. Steve tries not to let his disappointment show.

"I'll go check his place," Clint offers. "His parents gave me a key a while back, just in case I thought something was wrong and had to get inside. I'll let you know what I find."

Steve wants to hug him. "I'd really appreciate it."

"But if there's cake and I miss it, you owe me."

"I'll buy you a whole cake," Steve promises.

"Want someone to go with you?" Sam asks.

Clint shakes his head. "No point in everyone missing the party. He's probably just late, right?"

"Right," Steve echoes, his heart not in it. "Natasha, can you do me a favor?"

She's back at his side in an instant. "What do you need?"

"Bucky's mom said he asked her to change up the seating arrangements at the last minute. Could you— could you check his table, see who's sitting with him?"

"Which table is his?"

"Back by the window."

"Got it." Natasha grabs Sam's hand. "Darling, let's find our seats, shall we? I think I saw our names over there."

He has to hand it to her: she knows how to blend in even when the entire room is looking at her. Eyes catch on her dress, on her hair, on her face, but Natasha makes it look completely natural as she circles the tables, pretending to be looking for her own name amongst the handful of name cards on each one. Not a single person looks suspicious of her, and even Bucky's mother seems to fall for her ploy when she walks over and offers to help Natasha and Sam find their table.

They have to wait until someone else grabs Bucky's mother's attention before they excuse themselves and make their way back to Steve, but Steve already knows what Natasha is going to say before she reaches him. He can read it on her face.

"Remember that hypothetical list? There's not a single person at his table not on it."

Steve expected as much. "Does that sound suspicious to you?"

"Steve." Natasha hesitates, but only for a moment. "I could give you a dozen reasons to want every single person in this room dead. These aren't just people with money. These are people with  _power_. Getting them all in one room, in one area, together… I think that could be cause for concern." She looks Steve dead in the eye. "Do you have an explanation for why Bucky would want them here?"

"His mom said— she thinks he's considering taking over the family company. That he wants to make connections."

Natasha's expression turns considering. "That's definitely believable," she says. "And it makes sense. If you ignore the fact that I've never once heard James even hint that he might be interested in something like that."

"He's not."

When they were teenagers it was something Bucky talked about a lot, his parents wanting him to go to a good school, always trying to prepare him to take over the company one day. If something ever happens to them, it all goes to him. That's a lot of pressure to put on a teenager, Steve always thought, and Bucky seemed to feel the same way, even if he'd never admit it out loud. And then Bucky got a little older and they stopped talking about it all together, like he'd just decided to ignore it. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Not that I know of, anyway," Steve hastens to add. "He doesn't tell me everything, you know."

"But he'd tell you about something like this," Sam points out. "You know he would."

Steve would like to think he would. Steve would like to think there aren't any secrets between them, the way it used to be, but that's just not true anymore. If Steve managed to lie to Bucky for so long about the Captain America thing, who's to say Bucky can't keep things from him, too?

Only— no. No. That feeling in his gut, that feeling that tells him when something is wrong, or when doing something is right, it telling him right now that something is very wrong with this situation.

His phone rings before he can voice any of this out loud. He hurries to pull it out, praying with everything he has that it's Bucky, and he can't keep the disappointment out of his voice when he says, "Hi, Clint."

"I'm in Bucky's apartment," Clint informs him. "He's not here."

"He's not?"

"Nope, but his phone is. It's on the bed. I think he forgot it."

"Does it look like—?"

"No. It doesn't look like anyone's been here. No sign of a struggle."

Steve breathes a little easier. "Thank god."

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'll tell the others." Clint hangs up and Steve's phone returns to its place in his pocket. "Bucky's not at the apartment. Clint found his phone," he says. Then, before Natasha can ask, he adds, "He said it doesn't look like anyone else has been there."

Around the room, people are starting to find their seats. Steve catches Bucky's mom's eyes and regrets it the moment she zeroes in on him, cutting through the crowd of people looking for their tables, a furious set to her mouth.

"No sign of him?" she demands, reminding Steve that she can be very, very scary when she wants to. It's something Bucky inherited from her, though Steve rarely ever has it turned on him. The two of them, with those blue eyes, can turn icy so fast it'll make your head spin.

"No, ma'am," Steve says, wishing he had a different answer. "I tried calling him but he left his phone at home."

"Oh, he is in  _so_  much trouble. Dinner is about to be served. Everyone's wondering where he is." She sucks in a breath, carefully tucking back a piece of hair that's fallen out of her bun. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to go on without him. If you see him, tell him he better have a very good excuse for pulling something like this. I will not tolerate this kind of public humiliation, not even from him," she says viciously, anger flashing in her eyes. And then smiles winningly, carefully smoothing down the front of her shirt. "I hope you all enjoy the food."

With that, she walks away, helping the last of the guests to their tables. Natasha and Sam both look to Steve, wondering what to do next, and Steve honestly doesn't know.

"You two go sit, eat," Steve says after a moment. "I'm going to look around for him one more time."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Natasha asks.

Steve shakes his head. "No, I've got it. If he shows up, text me."

She nods. "Good luck."

He feels like he's going to need it.

Bucky's family home is just as familiar to Steve as his own apartment. He knows every nook and cranny, every place to hide and what rooms to stay out of from years of playing hide and seek. He knows the exact number of stairs leading up the main staircase, and which cupboards in the kitchen hide the good stuff.

He's not really expecting to find Bucky as he wanders the hallways. He just— he can't sit there in the ballroom and put on a smile and pretend everything is fine when it's not. Not this time. He has too active of an imagination and he already knows that the worst case scenario really is possible. If something's happened to Bucky and Steve is sitting here enjoying a party, he… he doesn't know how he'll live with himself.

If something is wrong, Steve should be out there looking for him, not waiting here for him to show up. What if— what if Hydra found him again? What if he's being hurt right now? What if he got in an accident on the way here? A thousand more possibilities flit through Steve's head, each one increasingly worse than the last, until he can't take it anymore.

Steve turns around abruptly, heading back for the ballroom to ask Sam for the keys to his car so he can go and look for Bucky, and lets out a sound of surprise when he rounds the corner.

"Bucky?"

Bucky walks straight towards him, dressed in a grey suit that makes him look like the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen. His hair hangs loose, falling into his face, and Steve's hands itch to push it back or capture it on paper. A bubble of warmth fills his chest, pushing him forward, legs carrying him faster, and Bucky—

Bucky looks right through him, eyes blank. He doesn't seem to see Steve at all as he turns and pushes open the doors to the ballroom without so much as a greeting smile or a short, "Hey, Steve."

Steve catches a glint of metal— on the right side, not the left— and zeroes in on the gun hidden just under Bucky's jacket.

Bucky never carries guns. Ever. The only time he's armed is when someone's attacking the city and he has no choice. The first time Steve ever saw what he could do with a gun in his hand had been in the gym in Stark Tower, and he remembers being sickened by it. It was the first time he'd realized what they'd tried to make Bucky into: a weapon, a killer. The only thing that eased his mind had been the fact that Bucky looked just as uncomfortable with it as Steve felt. He held the guns like he knew how to use them and hated it. Like he knew he could kill someone without breaking a sweat and that thought ate away at him.

So why the hell does he have a gun now? Bucky would never bring a weapon like that into the home of his sisters. Never. He'd rather die than do it, Steve knows for a fact.

Steve moves before he's even really decided to, breaking into a sprint and tackling Bucky before he can make it through the door. That gut feeling tells him that if he doesn't, someone is going to get hurt, but it's hard to believe it's worth it when the tackle has Bucky crashing to the floor, his elbow— the right one, damn it— cracking against the floor hard enough that, even as the door to the ballroom swings shut with Bucky and Steve both outside of it, he hears a few guests ask, "What was that?"

He looks down at Bucky, ready to apologize profusely, and something cracks against the right side of his face. The pain is surprising, darkening his vision for a moment, making his head spin. He tastes blood. His entire body jerks back with the force of it, and when his vision clears it's in time to see Bucky's hand flying for him again, his metal fist glinting brighter than the gun had.

Steve's instincts propel him sideways, have him on his feet before the blow can land. He prods at his teeth with his tongue and one of them moves, sickeningly.

"Bucky?" he says, more hurt leaking into that one word than should be possible.

Bucky doesn't answer. Not in words. He jumps up in one swift, graceful movement that Steve is more used to seeing from Natasha. From Bucky it looks like it shouldn't be impossible. He's too large, too muscular, and Steve would be impressed if he wasn't busy ducking as Bucky swings at him again, the full force of his body and that metal arm behind it. He moves out of the way at the last second, barely making it, but the wall behind him doesn't fare as well. Bucky's hand goes right through it, lodging itself in the plaster.

Bucky barely seems to notice. He rips his hand out of the wall and turns around to face Steve, the plates in his arm shifting as he stalks forward. His eyes are— they're blank, nothing in them. It's like looking at a robot, or a mannequin. Steve has read enough files from Natasha with the words  _brainwashed_ , _conditioned, controlled_  to have an inkling about what's going on here.

Never, in his entire life, has Bucky looked at Steve like this.

And Natasha warned him, too. Back when Bucky had first returned ("He wasn't on vacation, Steve. You need to be prepared for the very real possibility that your friend isn't who he used to be.") and then again when they'd all taken a vote on whether or not Bucky could join the team. She was the only one who agreed with Steve when he said no, though her reasons had been completely justified when Steve's had been selfish, a need to keep Bucky safe because he couldn't handle the thought of something happening to him again.

Naively, when she said that, Steve thought the worst was in the past, and he had been damn happy to convince himself of that, too, when he should've realized that it wasn't. He should've listened to her and prepared for something like this, but he hadn't.

"Bucky," he says, moving backwards, away from the doors to the ballroom. "Bucky, listen to me."

But he doesn't. He reaches for the gun at his belt, drawing and aiming the thing so fast that Steve has no choice. He grabs Bucky's wrist and twists hard, knowing that if he shoots, people will come looking, and Steve can't risk that. He twists, and twists, until he knows he's going to break Bucky's wrist if Bucky doesn't let up soon, and then, thank god, thank god, he lets go. The gun clatters to the ground.

It's not the end. Steve knows it's not, so he moves before Bucky can this time, attacks instead of blocks, and pushes Bucky up against the nearest wall, forearm pressing into Bucky's neck, a leg between Bucky's to keep him pinned there.

"This isn't you," he grits out as Bucky claws at his arm, ripping Steve's skin under his nails. "Buck, you can fight it. I know you can. You're stronger than whatever this is. You  _are_."

Bucky stops clawing and for a stupid moment Steve thinks he's gotten through, that easy, and then Bucky head-butts him and lights spark behind Steve's eyelids. He stumbles without meaning to, and Bucky kicks him while he's vulnerable, right in the chest, with enough force that, if Steve were a normal person, he thinks his chest would've concaved right then and there. Instead, it leaves him breathless, wheezing, remembering years when he couldn't quite breathe in enough, no matter how hard he tried.

He scrambles for something to hold onto, fingers curling in the front of Bucky's shirt as he tips backwards. Something flashes in Bucky's eyes, just enough for Steve to know that he's still in there, and then it's gone and Bucky is jerking out of his grip, letting Steve fall.

He learns just how much it must've hurt Bucky a minute ago when his elbows crack hard against the ground. One of them splits, blood spilling, and a distant part of Steve feels bad for whatever member of Bucky's parents' staff is going to have to clean it up later.

Bucky's hands find the gun again before Steve makes it to his feet. He feels the weight of it pointed at him, heavy in a way Bucky's gaze isn't right now. His finger flexes on the trigger, aim so steady Steve knows that there's no way he'll miss, no matter how quickly Steve moves.

They wanted a weapon. Everything Bucky's told him about what happened points to that, and it looks like they succeeded. Locked, loaded, and pointed straight at Steve. He can't tell what he's more afraid of: dying, or Bucky waking up one day and realizing what he's done.

And then, in the time it takes Steve to blink, Bucky flips the gun around in his hand so he's gripping the barrel and he swings, cracking it against the side of Steve's head. Steve doesn't see stars, or lights, or anything. The world goes black.

When Steve comes to, Bucky is gone with no sign of which way he went. Steve doesn't bother cataloguing his injuries, couldn't give less of a damn about himself right now; he fumbles into his pocket and pulls out his phone, not seeing the screen in front of him as he dials Natasha's number.

"Evacuate the room," he says when she answers, no time for pleasantries. "Get everyone out of there."

"Do I have time to be discreet?"

Steve thinks back to the dead look in Bucky' eyes and shakes his head, even if she can't see it. "No."

"Got it."

Steve scrambles to his feet, running for the dining room, and pushes through the doors just in time to see Natasha— standing atop one of the tables, looking wild with a rip up the side of her dress and her hair falling out of its pins— pull out a gun and shoot the back window. "Get the hell out of here!" she shouts, taking another shot at the window. "Now!"

 _Not exactly subtle,_  Steve thinks,  _but definitely effective_.

The room bursts into chaos, people shrieking and falling over each other in their haste to get out the door. They barrel past Steve, someone's high-heeled shoe pressing down on his toes, but Steve hardly notices. He's too busy moving, spotting a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye as Bucky steps into the room through the doors to the kitchen.

Steve grabs Sam's arm tight, not looking away from Bucky as he shouts over the noise, "He's got sisters upstairs! Find them and get them out of here!"

He doesn't hear Sam's reply because he's already moving, pushing past people trying to get out. Steve feels frighteningly underequipped. His whole team is here, minus Clint, and none of them are prepared. Tony doesn't have his suit, Sam doesn't have his wings, Steve doesn't have his shield. All he has is a sense of dread in his gut because this isn't an enemy, this is  _Bucky_. This is Bucky, and he's aiming that gun again, and when Steve follows his train of sight it lands on Bucky's father, his back turned as pushes his wife towards the door, trying to shield her body with his own.

"Bucky!" Steve yells, knowing he's not fast enough, he won't get there on time. Bucky's finger is pressing down on the trigger and Steve is  _useless_ , not good enough, helpless no matter how big his body gets, no matter what they pump into his veins, he can't—

An arrow lodges itself in Bucky's hand just before he presses the trigger, and the sound he makes when it does drowns out the clatter of the gun hitting the ground. It's anguished, pained, but it cuts off almost the second it starts, like he realizes what he's doing and stops himself.

Something happens to Bucky then, like a glitch in the system. He convulses a bit, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face too quickly to catch, and then it smooths over completely. "Mission compromised," Steve hears him mutter to himself when he gets closer. "Targets scattered. Retreat. Wait for further instructions." He blinks down at his hand, as if surprised to find the arrow, and then snaps it in half and pulls it through without a wince for the pain.

Steve tastes bile, acidic and thick as it rises up his throat. Everything in the room seems to fade away until all he can hear is the small, quiet sound of his own voice when he whispers, "Bucky?"

Bucky's eyes flick up, narrowing when they meet Steve's. Steve takes a step forward, going to him, but someone grabs his hand, grip relentless. "Don't engage," Natasha orders, her pistol trained on Bucky. "Step away from the gun!"

Bucky doesn't bother going for the gun. He doesn't have to. Steve sees the knife just a second before he throws it, and while he's never seen Bucky train with that particular weapon before, he doesn't doubt its accuracy as it flies for Natasha, flipping over and over in the air so fast it nearly blurs.

Steve tackles her, shielding her body with his own, bringing them both to the ground hard. She pushes at him the moment they hit, kicking him off of her, jumping up with her gun still in hand, but Bucky is— he's gone. Steve blinks, looking around, but the room is empty now save for him and his team. Bruce is on the far side of the room, looking seconds away from losing control; Clint is helping Tony to his feet, mindful of the blood dripping down Tony's fingers. Natasha is glaring down at him like he's responsible for letting Bucky get away.

"So, uh." Clint clears his throat. "Did I miss the cake?"

Steve swallows and looks up at the ceiling, telling himself that this is not the time to cry. Steve  _doesn't_  cry. It was the one weakness, growing up, that he had control over, and right now he can't afford to lose it. They don't have time for him to be weak. He needs to hold it together.

"We need to regroup," Steve says, forcing himself to look back down. "Make sure everyone's evacuated from the building and we'll figure out what to do from there."

"Steve," Natasha says lowly, her concern hidden behind a stoic expression.

"Don't worry about me right now," Steve advises. "Worry about making sure everyone is safe."

 

-o-

 

Bucky's family is, thankfully, fine. Aside from a broken shoe, a few ripped articles of ridiculously expensive clothing, and a bit of emotional trauma, the guests are all okay too. Natasha stays in the shadows after the stunt she pulled to get them all out of the building, and Steve knows damage control will have to be done when a handful of people stay behind to give statements to the police when they show up.

Bucky's sisters look terrified but none of them really know what happened.  _No one_  really knows what happened. No one had seen Bucky all night. They'd all started running for the door before he'd gotten into the room, and Steve has never been more grateful in his life than he is when he finds out that Bucky's father has no idea his son nearly killed him tonight.

"I think you should all stay at a hotel for the evening," he hears one of the officers suggest, and when Bucky's father nods, Steve retreats, knowing they'll be okay.

Bucky is gone. Steve knows, without a doubt, that he isn't here and he won't be back. Whatever he was supposed to do tonight, they stopped it.

"He said he had to retreat and wait for further instructions," Steve relays when they get to Stark Tower, ignoring the bandages when Natasha tries to give them to him.

Tony takes the bandages instead. His hand is cut up bad, slices covering the palm. In the chaos, someone had broken a glass and Tony had been pushed over, and he won't stop complaining about it. "This is why I prefer to throw my own parties. For this exact reason."

"In case a mind-controlled, son of a billionaire tries to off a room full of people?" Clint says dryly.

"Exactly."

"Don't," Steve snaps without meaning to. Everyone turns to him and he knows he's just confirmed their suspicions that he's falling apart right now, but what can he say to prove them wrong? He  _is_. "Don't joke about it."

Clint winces, chastised. He seems to think Steve's anger is stemmed from something else, not the fact that they're treating this like a normal job, a typical fight, like it's not someone they know, someone they care about. Cracking jokes the way they usually do. (They  _do_  care about Bucky, Steve isn't blind to that, but right now he can't take this. Acting like everything is okay isn't going to make it true. He can't pretend to treat this like a normal fight, and he can't handle them trying to.)

"I had to shoot him," Clint says, almost pleading. "You know that, right? I wouldn't've done it if I didn't have to."

"I know," Steve says. "And—" He can't do it. He can't make himself thank Clint for shooting an arrow into Bucky, even if he knows it had to be done. "I know you did."

"They must have had a plan laid out in case he couldn't complete his mission," Natasha says, steering the conversation back into something useful. "Whoever did this, I don't think they counted on all of the Avengers being there tonight."

"How could they do that?" Steve blurts. The question has been bouncing around in his mind for what feels like hours. "He wasn't in there, Natasha. How can someone do that to a person?"

"With time and the right tools," she says shortly. "You don't want the details on something like that, Steve, trust me. It won't help."

"But—"

" _Trust me_."

Steve bites his tongue but he's never been all that good at holding back what he wants to say. "They've been planning this the whole time," he grits out. "Since they released him, they were planning for all of this to happen, weren't they? They let him think he was free and then they used him to try and kill his own  _parents_  and—"

"And we stopped it," Bruce reminds him. "It didn't happen."

"But they'll try again," Steve states, looking to Natasha. "You have more experience with this than anyone here. They  _will_  try again, won't they?"

Natasha doesn't bother trying to lie to him. "Yes."

"And he'll do it. Whatever they tell him to do."

"Yes."

"Can we stop him?"

"Yes."

"Without stopping him  _permanently_?"

She hesitates. "I don't know."

" _Natasha_."

"I don't know!" she hisses. "The kind of control they have over his mind, that's not easily broken. Some people don't make it back from that. If we try to stop him, he might force our hand and give us no choice but to take him out. If he doesn't, I can't guarantee that there's enough of him left to recover. When you play with the human mind like that, there's no telling what can happen. It's dangerous. There's a reason it doesn't happen often and it's because it rarely works without complications."

"What kind of complications?" Steve pushes. He needs to know. All of it, he needs to know.

"He could wake up with blood on his hands and decide to kill himself before they can get control of him again, or go on a rampage, treating everyone like a threat and killing everything in his path, including the people trying to control him and the ones trying to help. It's happened in the past. There are a lot of variables at play here, Steve. There's no way to predict what will happen."

"We'll stop him," Steve states. Anything else isn't a possibility. "Before he hurts anyone or himself. We have to."

"We will," Sam agrees, placing a calming hand on Steve's shoulder. Usually it works, bringing Steve back from whatever brink he's on, but it doesn't now. Nothing will. "You're not the only one who cares about him, Steve. We'll all work through this together. We will."

"We will," Clint echoes.

"As a team," Bruce adds.

Tony looks up from picking at the bandages covering his hand. "Speaking of which, M.C. Hammer will be here soon. God of Thunder is stuck in traffic."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. "We need to come up with a plan," he says. If he keeps busy, he doesn't have to take time to think about what this is all doing to  _his_  head. "We need to figure out where he is or where they're going to send him."

"You know we have nothing on Hydra," Natasha gently reminds him. "We've been looking into them for years, it's impossible to—"

"What  _do_  we know?" Steve demands. "Aside from the fact that Bucky is walking around out there with someone else in his  _head_ , telling him what to do."

Everyone stares again and Steve's teeth grind together.

"Someone give me something with a screen and access to the internet," Tony orders, holding out his hand. Attention shifts, and it's only a moment before someone hands Tony a tablet. "Okay, what was Plucky wearing tonight?"

Steve frowns. "Grey suit. Hair down. That's all I can remember."

"Mm." Tony does something on the tablet, fingers quickly skimming over the screen. A beat passes, then another. "No sign of him anywhere. Social media, police reports. No one's seen him."

"That was unhelpful," Clint mutters.

"Was it?" Tony snaps. "At least we know he's not out rampaging the city Godzilla-style."

That's— that's a good point, Steve has to admit. "Thank you."

Tony shrugs, attention still on the tablet. "If anyone mentions anything about anyone matching Bucky's description, it'll alert us immediately. I can access security cameras all over the city, too, but I can't do that on this thing. I'll have to go upstairs."

"Do that," Steve advises. "If we can figure out where he is, we can figure out what to do next."

"I think I can help with that."

In light of everything else going on, Steve is so distracted that he hadn't even heard the elevator doors opening, let alone anyone coming into the room. He jumps in surprise, turning at the sound of Nick Fury's voice, and gapes at what he finds.

"Nick?" Natasha is out of her seat fast, crossing the room in a blur to help keep Fury on his feet. Maria Hill stands on Fury's other side, already supporting his body. He looks hurt, the side of his coat drenched in blood, and his skin is ashen. He's limping.

"We had a run-in with Bucky," Maria says.

"He." Steve wills himself not to vomit. "He did that?"

"Shot twice in the leg and the right side. Clean entry and exit. I bandaged him up before we got here. He'll live."

"Because you saved my ass," Fury adds.

Maria's lips twitch into an approximation of a smile. "Just part of my job."

"To hell it is. I told you to wait outside."

"What happened?" Sam asks as they make their way across the room slowly. He and Bruce both stand up, leaving the couch free for Nick to sit down, which he does with a heavy sigh and a groan.

"We've been keeping an eye on Barnes since he got home," Fury says, looking to Steve daringly, waiting for Steve to get upset with this piece of information.

"Natasha already told us."

"Right." Steve can't tell if he looks disproving of this or not. "A guy shows up after being declared dead for five years and won't tell anyone what happened to him? It raises some eyebrows. We figured it'd be better if we found out before anyone else did, so I had Romanoff bug his apartment and we've been keeping an eye on the security footage of the building. Before you go off and tell me that's an invasion of privacy, I'd like to remind you that we weren't the only ones interested in what happened to him. We kept a lot of people from asking him a lot of questions, Steve. He's had more freedom than he would've otherwise. People wanted him locked up for observation, questioned until he broke, but we put a stop to that."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm not going to thank you for invading his privacy."

"You should," Fury says, "because if we didn't, Maria here wouldn't've caught Alexander Pierce paying him a visit tonight at 6:08pm."

" _What_?"

"That seem a little suspicious to you? Because it did to me. I've known Pierce for a long time, might even consider him a friend, if not for what happened tonight, and I don't know if you know this, but I don't have a lot friends."

"Can't see why," Steve hears Clint whisper to Bruce.

"Because of that," Fury continues, "I thought I'd ask him about it before jumping to conclusions. Decided to pay him a visit, told Hill to stay in the car, and I thought maybe my suspicions were off. He offered me a drink, didn't seem up to anything, and then I mentioned Barnes' name and next thing I knew, I had a bullet hole in my side and Hill was trying to stop the bleeding."

"You're sure it was Bucky?"

Fury raises the eyebrow not hidden behind his eyepatch. "How many guys you think walk around with an arm like his? I'm pretty goddamn sure."

He wouldn't lie about it, either. There's a level of trust between Steve and Nick, even if it wobbles sometimes. Steve has never been all that good at taking orders, and Fury isn't all that good with people disobeying his, but they respect each other, and Steve is confident that Fury wants nothing but the best for this city.

Still, something about what he's just said has Steve's alarms ringing, loud and clear. "Alexander Pierce," he repeats. "Why is that name familiar?"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You need to keep better track of the people in positions of power in this city."

"What do we know about him?"

Tony hands Steve the tablet instantly. On screen, there's an entire profile already made up. The company(s) Pierce owns, news articles, everything the media has said about him in the last year. And a picture. A picture of a man that's all too familiar to Steve.

"He was there," Steve says, heart pounding. "That day. When Bucky left."

"What day?" Sam asks.

"The— the day of the  _crash_. When he left for— for Paris. Pierce was there. At Bucky's house. With his dad. I remember him being there. He— he wished Bucky a safe flight and everything." Steve sees red. "He planned it. From the beginning. All of it. The plane crash, kidnapping him, what they did to him. It wasn't just tonight that they planned, it was everything, from the beginning."

"We looked into that, back when it first happened," Fury admits. "Had specialists look at the wreckage, see if there was foul play involved or if it was just a run-of-the-mill plane crash. We couldn't find any proof."

"He was  _there_ ," Steve snaps. "Am I supposed to believe that was a coincidence?"

"No, you're not. I don't believe in coincidences. All I said was that we didn't have proof, but that it was highly suspected that the crash wasn't an accident."

"And no one ever thought to mention that?"

"What good would it have done?" Fury asks. "No proof, no way to figure out who did it, it would've caused the family to panic. It's bad enough to lose a family member to a plane crash. Imagine knowing that someone planned for it to happen and having no way to find the people who did it? Until we had solid evidence, we kept our suspicions to ourselves."

The hatred that bubbles up in Steve is surprising. Hatred isn't a feeling he's used to having, but it's strong enough that it eclipses everything and the thought of killing Alexander Pierce flits through Steve's mind and sticks like gum to the underside of a desk. Since all of this started, Steve has managed to keep his hands fairly clean. Right now, he lets himself imagine them stained red and it doesn't scare him as much as it should.

And then Sam puts a hand on his shoulder and it does. It does scare him. That's not what they do. Right now, this isn't about getting revenge for everything that's happened to Bucky. This is about saving Bucky, and Steve can't let his anger distract him from that until Bucky is safe.

"So if Pierce is behind this," Steve says, "then where do we find him?"

"He won't be at his house," Fury tells them all. "If he knows that Barnes failed to kill me, he knows that we'll be coming after him, and the place has glass for walls. Can't protect it. He'll go somewhere it'll be easier to secure, somewhere with better security."

"His building downtown," Natasha supplies.

"He'll be on the top floor," Fury says. "That's where his office is, and it's the hardest place to get to unless you've got a chopper."

"Or a set of wings," Sam interjects.

Fury almost smiles. "Or a set of wings."

"He'll have Bucky with him for security as well as everyone else under his employment in the building," Natasha says, getting down to business now that they have somewhere to start. "There's no way to tell how many of them are part of Hydra. We need to assume, for the time being, that Pierce is at the head of the operation unless we get intel telling us otherwise. That means we need him  _alive_ , Steve. We don't know what they're attempting to do here, and Pierce may be our only chance to find out."

Steve glowers at her. "I'm not going to kill him."

"Are you sure? I'd want to, if I was in your position."

"I never said I didn't want to. I said I won't."

"Good." If she doubts this, she doesn't say so. She's too busy watching the elevator doors as Thor comes in, looking almost— almost like he just woke up, hair a bit messy, eyes tired. There's a mark on his neck. "Traffic?" Natasha asks, arching an eyebrow.

Thor runs a hand through his hair. "Something of that nature, yes."

"Jane pissed that we interrupted date night?" Clint taunts.

Natasha rolls her eyes and doesn't give Thor time to answer. "Everyone's here; we have to come up with a plan. We need the layout of the building, and a good estimation of how many guards will be inside, and what kind of security system we'll be dealing with."

"And a plan to get Bucky out safely," Steve reminds her. "Whether—" He grimaces, the words sticking to his tongue. "Whether that means he comes willing or we have to subdue him first."

"We'll also need tranquilizers, then."

Steve breathes, only because he consciously reminds himself to. "I'm going to go get cleaned up," he mutters, abruptly pushing himself to his feet. "Brief Thor on what's happening."

No one tries to stop him as he heads for the bathroom, but footsteps echo behind him. He doesn't need advanced hearing or any sort of training to know that it's Sam. He knows because it's  _Sam_  and of course he's following Steve.

He pushes open the bathroom door wide, leaving room for Sam to come in after him, an invitation when he could've shut it just as easily and Sam would've accepted that. Sam does the shutting for him, closing them in, and then Steve sits on the toilet and shrugs out of his jacket.

"You stained your suit," Sam says, taking the jacket from him and folding it up, nice and neat.

"For some reason, I really don't care."

"Fair enough." Sam hesitates, looking in the mirror instead of at Steve. "You good, man?"

"If I say yes, will you believe me?"

"Probably not."

"Then no."

Sam cracks a smile. "You wanna cry? Punch something?"

"I want to get him back."

Sam's smile slips into something serious. He nods. "Okay. Then we'll get him back."

Steve's head jerks up. "You heard what Natasha said. We might not be able to—"

"That was the worst case scenario," Sam says. "This life, it takes a lot out of you. It eats you up sometimes, but you know what makes it worth it? We win. Every time, we make it. Sometimes we have to fail first, or someone gets hurt, or everyone gets hurt, but we finish things and we win. That's what we do, and this isn't going to be any different."

"You don't know that for sure."

"Yeah, I do, because you're gonna make sure of it. You don't give up, Steve, that's kind of your whole thing. Don't let this be the one time you do."

"I'm not giving up," Steve spits. "I— I don't know how to fight this. Usually we have a clear idea of who's on the bad side and who's on the good. This time we don't. This is  _Bucky_ , Sam, and he nearly killed me back there."

"But he didn't. He didn't get a chance to hurt anyone, and we won't let that change. We're gonna get him back, and we're gonna fix this. I promise."

Steve runs a hand down his face. "You can't make a promise like that."

"Yeah, well." Sam shrugs. "I just did."

"And you call  _me_  stubborn."

"Guess you're rubbing off on me," Sam says with a grin. "Probably not a good thing to say when locked in a bathroom with someone."

"Coming onto me, Wilson?"

"Bucky's already almost killed one of us today. Let's not go for two."

Steve laughs half-heartedly. "Thanks. For coming after me."

"That's what I'm here for; I'm not just a pretty face. That would be Clint, when he doesn't have a black eye."

This time Steve's laugh is more genuine. He lifts his hand, offering it, and Sam hauls him to his feet, pulling him into a hug at the last second. His hand slaps at Steve's back and Steve knows, in this moment, that Sam is right. They'll do this. They'll fix this. There's no other option.

"Right." Steve steps back, clearing his throat. "Let's help the other figure out what we're going to do."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"Don't ruin the moment."

Sam knocks their shoulders together on their way down the hall, and Steve feels the pieces of himself drawing back together.


	15. Chapter 15

 

Their 'plan' isn't much of a plan. Attacking a building like the one Alexander Pierce is in will never be a clean, fast job. There're too many hallways, too many rooms, too many places for anyone to hide. In buildings like this, especially when owned by a man that seems to have something to hide, there are always going to be places the security cameras don't reach, so even if (when) Tony hacks into them, there will be no way to see everyone coming. They can't get a solid number on how many people they'll be facing, either, or whether or not Bucky is going to be with Pierce or sent down to fight when they break in.

Tony will be more useful staying out of the fight and being their eyes and ears, as much as he can, with Bruce's help. Natasha is going to enter on the fifteenth floor, Clint is coming up from the basement, and Thor is going to walk in the front door like he's been invited. Steve is going to wait until reinforcements come for the three of them, and then Sam is going to take him up to the roof before joining whichever of the others needs help.

If Bucky is going to be with Pierce, Steve wants to handle him alone. He trusts the others with his life, but if he's going to get through to Bucky he can't have any other distractions around. And if Bucky isn't with Pierce, and Pierce is alone, Steve is more than capable of handling him without backup.

Still, even with a plan, there are too many variables at play here and Steve can't help but think they're going in blind, but they have no choice.

"Two minutes, Cap," Sam counts down as they wait, sitting on the roof of the building across the street from Pierce's. "Hammerhead's going in. Spiderbite's ready to go. Turkey Leg, you almost in the building?"

In his ear, through the earpiece, Clint makes a rude sound. "Why don't I ever get to pick my own codename? And if we're masked superheroes with superhero names, why do we even  _need_  codenames?"

Sam grins at Steve, unbothered by the wind whipping around them. "What was that, Turkey Leg? Are you in the building?"

"Yeah, I'm in the stupid building," Clint snaps. "Feather Face."

"My codename is Idris Elba, we already established this."

Steve barks a laugh, happy for the distraction. He's pointedly  _not_  thinking about the tranquilizer gun at his belt, or the fact that, in the next twenty minutes, he might have to use it on his best friend. Boyfriend. His best friend who happens to currently (hopefully indefinitely) be his boyfriend.

Just the thought of it is making Steve a little sick, but— but what alternative do they have, if he can't get through to Bucky? There's no other way to take him out, that Steve can think of, without hurting him. And they can't let him go, either, or he might end up hurting someone else.

"You ready, Steve?"

Steve nods, turning his face towards the wind. It's cold enough that it chills him, even if he figures he'd be okay to stand outside naked in this weather for hours and not even catch a cold. "I'm ready."

"We can only buy you so much time, remember that. The others are a distraction, but when Pierce figures out you're coming after him he might hit some kind of alarm to call in reinforcements. We'll try to stall them as much as we can but if Bucky is up there, and you can't get through to him…"

"I know." Steve fingers the gun at his belt. "Get him and get out of there, by any means necessary. I know, Sam."

"Think of it this way," Sam says as he slings an arm over Steve's shoulder. "Sure, you might have to tranquilize him, but it's better than the alternative, right?"

"Right," Steve says emotionlessly.

"Don't feel so guilty about it, then. And hey, if it'll make you feel better, when this is all over he can tranq you and we can all see how the serum stands up against that kind of sedative. Eye for an eye,  _and_  for science."

"That's an experiment I'd pay to watch," Tony says in his ear. "Can we video tape it?"

"Trust me," Clint says over Tony, "you don't want to get shot with a tranquilizer gun. It's not fun."

"Oh, my god," Natasha groans. "Will you let that  _go_?"

"No, I won't let that—" Clint cuts off as the sound of gunfire rings through their earpieces. "Natasha?"

"I'm fine," Natasha says. "No one's shooting at me. I don't know where that's—"

So loud Steve actually jumps, Thor's booming, joyous laughter fills his ear. "Asgardian armor! Your bullets do nothing!"

"Never mind," Natasha says calmly. "Found the source of the gunfire." A pause. "I hear footsteps. They're sending reinforcements down the back stairwell."

"Stay out of it," Bruce says quickly. "There're too many of them."

"What your concerned significant other is trying to say," Tony continues, "is that we've got eyes on the stairwell. I'm seeing at least a dozen, maybe more. Wait it out. Ambush them from behind when I give you the go ahead and—"

Steve switches off his earpiece, meeting Sam's eyes. "Time to go."

"You sure you want to do it this way?" Sam asks, showing his first hint of doubt in the plan. "You sure you want to take him on alone?"

"I need to."

If Steve is going to get through to Bucky, it's not going to happen if Natasha or Sam or Clint have a gun or a bow trained on him. Steve needs to get him  _alone._  And— and Steve doesn't know if he'll manage. He really doesn't. He wants to believe that he will, that Bucky will break through this, but he's not as sure as he should be, and the chances of someone getting hurt are too high. At least if it's just Steve, he can live with it (though he might not get a chance to). He's not willing to risk anyone else.

And he needs to do this for Bucky, too, because if he does manage to break through this, he'll never forgive himself if he hurt someone along the way.

"Alright," Sam says slowly, giving Steve one last chance to back out. "Let's do this, then."

Flying with Sam is the kind of exhilarating and terrifying that Steve loves, most of the time. Right now, with the city below and the cold air slicing through them like shards of glass, it's not as enjoyable. Steve's eyes water but he keeps his gaze fixed on the roof across from them, preparing to land.

"Good luck, Cap!" Sam shouts, swooping down as low as he can before Steve falls.

The buildings around this one are taller, sheltering it from most of the wind, and everything is eerily quiet as Steve's feet hit the roof. The shock of the landing reverberates through him, a prickling in his feet from the impact. He straightens up slowly, reaching over his shoulder, fingers sliding over the comforting metal of his shield.

He can do this.

He takes a step, then another, telling himself over and over again that they have a plan, that this is just another mission, one of dozens he's already completed. The door on the other side of the roof gets bigger and bigger, and it's so damn easy for Steve to reach out and grasp the doorknob in his hand, twisting and pushing the door open. That's why the others went in first. If Pierce had expected someone to come in this way, and sent guards to watch the door, chances are they were the same guards running down the stairwell a minute ago, going after the bait.

 _Easy_ , Steve thinks as he starts down the stairwell, careful to keep each footstep silent.  _This is so easy_.

And then it's not.

The first bullet hits the wall on his left, the sound of it piercing the silence. Steve jumps back as plaster falls to the ground, and that's the only reason the next bullet doesn't hit him square in the forehead. Bucky, on the landing below him, adjusts his aim, right for Steve's head, and Steve does the only thing he can: he turns around and runs. The stairwell is too small for a fight, and this enclosed of an area makes it too hard to dodge the bullets. Steve is good, sure, but so is Bucky's aim, and he could hit Steve even by accident in a space this small.

The bullets follow him, hitting so close to him every time that Steve has to force himself not to flinch with the sound of each one. He bursts through the door and back onto the roof just as he hears the  _click_  of the clip running out, and trips over the lip of the stairs, hands burning when they hit the cement; he doesn't stop.

When he gets to his feet and looks over his shoulder, Bucky is following him at a slow, leisurely pace. Somehow, the methodical, uncaring way he moves chills Steve more than if Bucky had charged at him full-speed. It's not the walk of a man who's determined to do something; it's not the movements of a soldier following his orders; it's the walk of someone who has absolutely no investment in the outcome of his actions, who's moving because he's been programed to, not because he wants to, or because he's willingly following orders. Because someone else is pulling the strings.

When Bucky steps out onto the roof, Steve gets a good look at him. The wind tangles his hair, lifting it and getting it in his face. A bandage covers his hand where Clint's arrow had pierced him earlier, bloodied from the wound. There's more blood, too, a small trickle of it leading from his lip to his chin, though Steve— Steve definitely didn't punch him, so where the hell did that come from?

The gun is still in Bucky's hand and, while he can't see any, he doesn't doubt that Bucky has more ammo on him. He's seen how quickly Bucky can reload a gun, how smoothly and effortlessly, and there's nowhere to run, nothing to duck behind out here. Steve can't risk him doing that, so he does the only thing he can think of.

Steve throws the shield, aiming for Bucky's wrist, _I'm sorry_  flitting through his mind as the shield flies through the air, and—

Bucky catches it. Steve jerks back in surprise as Bucky's left hand sticks out, catching the shield like they're playing a friendly game of frisbee. He skids back a bit, feet scraping against the ground, but it in no way hits its target or disarms him.

This has never happened before. Steve blinks, unsure of what to do, as Bucky stares at him across the feet separating them, eyes blank and unseeing. And then he launches the shield back at Steve, all the strength of that arm and his body combined, and Steve learns what it's like to be on the receiving end of his favored attack.

The shield hits him in the gut, pushing him back with the force of it. Steve skids farther than Bucky did, all the air pushed from his lungs. He bends, curving into the thing, and coughs wetly, pain springing tears to his eyes. Bucky stalks towards him before he can recover.

"Bucky," he chokes out, taking a step backwards. "Bucky, put the gun down. Please."

Bucky doesn't. He reaches for something at his side and Steve doesn't have the luxury of waiting to see what it is. He rushes forward, ignoring the ache of pain in his gut, and collides with Bucky's body, the shield and the gun both lost as they fall to the ground.

Bucky doesn't look surprised by the attack; Bucky doesn't look  _anything_  as he reaches up, hand closing around Steve's throat, and throws him back.

Steve lands on his ass hard, his earpiece falling out when he hits the ground. He looks around, trying to locate it, but it's dark, the earpiece is almost the same colour as the cement, and it's too small. Still, he slaps around the ground, trying to feel for it, and then something presses down on his chest, hard enough to break bones, if Steve was a weaker man.

He looks up, grasping at Bucky's boot, but all Bucky does is shift so it's pressing down on Steve's throat instead. "I can't— I can't  _breathe_ , Buck," Steve gasps, which, logically, he knows can't be true, since he's still talking, but it feels like he can't breathe and that feeling is all too familiar to Steve. "I can't—"

The boot on his throat lets up, just a little, and something in Bucky's gaze softens.

Then it hardens, the boot lifts off Steve completely, and it connects with Steve's side one, twice, three times, four— Steve loses count, his mind spinning. He tries to roll away from it, shakily manages to push himself up onto his hands before the next kick comes, sending him skidding across the roof just as the shield had.

It hurts—fuck, it hurts— but it's good. Steve is glad for that last kick because it puts enough distance between them for him to get to his feet before Bucky is on him again, fist flying towards Steve's face.

Steve catches Bucky's wrist, turning to sink his elbow into Bucky's gut. The groan Bucky lets out isn't at all satisfying but it does leave him vulnerable enough for Steve to uppercut him. He jerks back afterwards, seeing the red of blood stain Bucky's face from his bleeding nose, and reaches for the tranquilizer gun at his belt.

He manages to get the thing in his hand before he realizes his mistake. A punch like that, it must've hurt. Steve is counting on it hurting enough to leave Bucky gasping in pain long enough to shoot him with the tranquilizer, but Steve underestimates what they've done to Bucky. He doesn't seem to care that he's been hurt. He doesn't care about anything because they've taken that part of him away.

That's Steve's last thought before Bucky takes the gun from him and shoots him with it.

 

-o-

 

When Steve wakes up, he's face down on a sparklingly clean floor. He tastes blood and his head aches, but he wasn't out for long. Two minutes, maybe five. Long enough for them to get him inside and take off his helmet, strap a pair of handcuffs on him and drop him onto the floor, but not much more.

He groans without meaning to, struggling to get onto his knees, and almost gets one foot underneath him before he hears the safety of a gun click off and feels the cold barrel dig into the back of his neck. He holds his breath and stops moving.

"Very smart," someone says from behind him, but he doesn't dare turn his head. Instead he waits, and Pierce moves so he's in Steve's line a sight, actually smiling, the smug son of a— "I'd ask you if you're comfortable but I think we're past the point of pleasantries."

The floor is painfully hard beneath Steve's knees, the cuffs are too tight around his wrists, and the gun seems to be pushing against a cut on the back of his head. And yet, the worst part is that all Steve can smell is Bucky's shampoo.

Pierce smiles at him like he can read Steve's mind. He reaches the desk in front of Steve, his back to the windows overlooking the city, and pulls a bottle of whiskey out of one of the drawers, pouring himself a glass and leaning casually against the desk like they're two old colleagues sharing a drink after finishing up work for the day.

"You can put the gun down," Pierce adds, speaking to Bucky this time, not Steve. "He's not going anywhere."

The pressure at the back of Steve's head lets up and he climbs to his feet, his legs protesting the movement. They're unsteady but they hold.

"Better? Would you like a chair?"

"I prefer to stand," Steve spits.

"Suit yourself." Pierce sips at his whiskey, swirling the liquid around in his glass afterwards. "The thing is," he says, conversationally, "we're not as different as you think, Steve. I'm only trying to do the same thing that you and your team are doing."

"I think you have the wrong idea about what it is that my team and I do."

"You save people," Pierce says. "You protect this city. You would lay your own life down on the line for the people who live here, and I would do the same. I  _am_  doing the same, though perhaps not quite as literally as you."

In the last few years, Steve has learned a lot about human flaws. Arrogance is definitely one of them. The thing about people is that, when they accomplish something, they need to share it. It's not simply enough to  _do_  something, they have to let people know that they did it. Steve can see it in Pierce's eyes, in the way he holds himself; he's too proud, too pleased with himself, and he's dying to tell Steve why.

Steve doesn't care. There's no explanation, no  _excuse_  he can give that will make Steve understand what he's done, but Steve has spent enough time with Natasha to know how to play people. Soon, the others are going to wonder why Steve isn't answering them. Soon, they're going to come looking for him. All he needs to do is keep Pierce occupied long enough for that to happen.

So, he asks: "What is it you're doing, then?"

When Pierce's grin widens, Steve thinks  _hook, line, and sinker._

"This city," Pierce says as he turns to look out the window, "is falling apart. I'm sure you and your team understand that better than anyone, and you're making a valiant effort to stop it from happening, but what you do is unsustainable. For every life you save, another building crumbles to the ground. The damage done when your team comes in is going to ruin us. At the rate we're going now, there won't be a city left to save soon enough. We need to nip the problem in the bud  _before_  it becomes a problem."

Steve has to check his own pride to keep from snapping at the slight on his team. "How exactly do we do that?" he asks instead. He needs to keep Pierce talking.

"I was hoping you would ask." He puts down his glass in favor of picking up a remote. "Years ago," he begins, hitting a button that has a screen descending from the ceiling, so similar to New Year's that it makes Steve a little sick, "I asked a few of my friends and colleagues the same question. Crime rates were up; people weren't feeling safe. Those of us in positions of power felt helpless. Our city started to fall apart long before you put on that uniform, Steve, and something had to be done about it. That's where Project Insight came in."

A set of blueprints suddenly appear on the screen. It looks like an aircraft carrier, only modified. The words on the screen are too small to read, from this far away, but the big picture is clear enough.

"Beautiful, isn't it? You're looking at billions of dollars and years of planning," Pierce informs him. He hits another button and the blueprints slide away to a model of the thing, bringing the blueprints to life. "With this helicarrier, we'll be able to protect the people of this city, and one day the country, and then the  _world_ , and we'll be able to do it without destruction, without loss of lives— innocent lives, in any case. When this helicarrier finally gets in the air, it'll be able to pick off any target, any target at all. You can't hide from it, can't run from it. We'll be able to wipe criminals off the map like  _that_." He snaps his fingers. "Policemen won't have to risk their lives.  _You_  won't have to risk your life. Swift, efficient, clean. No more fights on the streets. No more civilian casualties. No more damaged buildings and destroyed property."

Steve tries not to let his reaction show, even as his stomach twists. Something like this, in  _any_  hands, it's— it's unthinkable. The way Pierce is talking, he says it'll be used for good, but that kind of power is never solely used for good. That kind of power leads to corruption, leads to death, leads to a lot more destruction than Pierce thinks it'll prevent.

"See, that look on your face right now," Pierce says as the screen begins to ascend into the ceiling once more, "is the exact look that your friend here's father had on his face when he first saw the blueprints, and he wasn't alone. When this project began, there were only a handful of us. A dozen or so. We all invested our money, our  _lives_  in this project, but when it finally started to take off, I realized that not everyone remained on board. We talked of a solution to a problem, I produced one, but not everyone agreed that it was the right way to go.

"Change, Captain: it scares people. That doesn't mean it's always bad. This project  _will_  save lives. It'll make the world a better and safer place, and we can't afford to put a stop to it. When I realized that some of my team might feel differently, I had to come up with a backup plan. The path to greatness, after all, is paved with sacrifices." He looks to Bucky for a moment, something twisted in his eyes. Possession. He looks at Bucky the same way he looked at the blueprints. "His sacrifice will allow this project to continue, uninterrupted."

"A sacrifice is giving something up, surrendering something," Steve says, anger making his words sharp. "He didn't give anything up. It was  _taken_  from him. There's a difference."

Pierce frowns. "You think I'm the enemy, Steve, but I'm not lying to you when I say I'm sorry for what's had to happen to your friend. Necessity occasionally negates morality. In this case, I need to keep those members of my team who've decided they're no longer invested in saving this city quiet. They have the power to stop this project from continuing, and I won't allow that."

"So you'll have Bucky  _kill_  them?"

"Tonight was supposed to go so perfectly," Pierce sighs. "Everyone's had questions since his return. Five years gone, and no one can deny that he's a changed man. There's not a person in this city who would find it hard to believe that James just… snapped. He's been unstable, they'd say. They all saw it coming. What a tragedy, that he killed all those people, but is anyone really surprised? No one would've looked any farther into things, and every person who might stand in the way of this project would be dead. Not a single head would turn in my direction."

The handcuffs dig into Steve's wrists, hard enough that he feels the slick of blood coating his palms. Whatever they're made out of, they're strong enough that he can't break them. That's the only reason Steve doesn't strangle Pierce to death, right then and there. "I think a few people would've been surprised," he says furiously.

"Well, obviously you weren't considered a problem when this all started," Pierce points out. "I'll admit that I underestimated you and that has caused a few complications. Complications that I plan on dealing with now, actually." He has the audacity to smile at Steve, after everything he's admitted to. "I don't want to kill you. In fact, I admire what you and your team have done. And I'm sure you're wondering where they are right now, aren't you? I know they're in the building. I know you didn't come alone."

Steve  _is_  wondering, actually. It's been too long since he's checked in; someone should've come to look for him by now. If they're not here, it's for a reason.

"This entire floor is under lockdown," Pierce explains. "No one gets in, no one gets out. And I can assure you that these windows are reinforced to withstand anything, including whatever devices Mr. Stark has at his disposal. The only way either of us leaves this room is if we come to an agreement."

Steve licks his lips. "What kind of an agreement?"

"I'll let you walk out of this room," Pierce offers. "You'll join your friends. And you'll allow me to continue my work on Project Insight without interference."

"Or we wait," Steve counters. "You can't stay in here forever, and I don't know how many guards you had out there but I have a feeling there aren't that many left. Even if you kill me, my team will stop you."

Pierce nods. "I'm smart enough to know that, Steve, give me a little credit. I've kept my eye on you since you donned that suit. The word _reckless_  comes to mind. Self-sacrificing. You wouldn't blink before giving your life for the greater good, would you? I'm not stupid enough to think that threatening your life will get me what I want. His life, on the other hand…"

Steve looks over his shoulder, just for a second, and his heart sinks into his stomach. Bucky is staring straight ahead, eyes blank, back straight, mouth closed. He has his own pistol pressed against his temple, his finger on the trigger.

"I think that changes things, don't you?"

Steve turns back around. "If you hurt him, I swear I'll—"

"I don't have to," Pierce reminds him. "He'll do it himself the second I command him to. And if I let you out of this room and someone tries to come after me, I will. I still have need of him, but like I said: sacrifices. I'm more than willing to make another one. Are you?"

Steve pulls on the cuffs again, harder, raw skin rubbing against metal. "If I— if I leave, you let him live?"

"Of course. As soon as the helicarrier is in the air, I'll even let him go. He was already gone five years. What's another two or three? As long as no one on your team tries to stop Insight from happening, he lives."

What kind of person does it make him if he actually considers it? "What will you do with him?"

"As long as he's alive, does it matter?"

 _No_ , Steve thinks as he slips one of his bloodied hands out of the cuff, biting his tongue to keep from wincing.  _It doesn't._ His answer is the same, no matter what promises Pierce makes about Bucky's safety. Steve can't lose him, he can't, but this thing, this Project Insight, it could lead to the deaths of so many people. Steve doesn't think he can live without Bucky again, but he knows he'd never be able to live with himself if Pierce succeeds and people are killed because of it.

He doesn't think Bucky could, either.

"I'd like to politely decline."

Pierce's eye twitches. "I don't know if you've realized this, Captain, but you don't have any other options."

Steve puts more weight on his left leg, preparing, and says, "I think I do."

"Oh, really? And what are they?"

Steve reaches behind him as he moves, grabbing Bucky's wrist. He disarms Bucky before Pierce or Bucky realize what's happening and removes the clip from the gun fast, tossing both in opposite directions.

"Take away his weapon, for starters," Steve says, almost cracking a grin.

Instead of looking mad, Pierce actually laughs. "You seem to misunderstand, Captain. He  _is_  the weapon."

Behind him, Bucky makes a choked sound and Steve turns to see him with his metal hand wrapped around his own throat, squeezing tightly. He gasps, eyes wide, but his hand stays where it is, the skin around the metal fingers turning red, his face pale, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, struggling to breathe. He falls to his knees.

Steve falls to his knees right along with him, grasping at Bucky's hand, his arm. "Let go," Steve says, heart pounding. "Bucky,  _stop_."

"We've yet to test this," Pierce says, sounding curious. "We have no idea if the control on his mind will falter when faced with death. His instincts may kick in before he suffocates. Or they may not. Do you really want to find out, Steve?"

Bucky's eyelids get heavier with each blink. Steve's fingers bleed, scraping against the metal, trying to wedge between Bucky's throat and his hand. It's no use. Bucky's grip is too tight, unyielding, and no matter how hard Steve tries, he can't get Bucky's hand to let go.

"Stop!" Steve shouts. "Bucky, listen to me, you need to stop."

"As if he has a choice," Pierce scoffs. "He's been conditioned to completely obey every command I make. In his mind, going against what I say is literally unthinkable."

Bucky's hand on the floor, the only thing keeping him balanced, slips, and he starts to tip over. Steve holds him up, still trying to get him to let go, but he knows it's no use. He grips Bucky's face tight in his hands, looking into his eyes, and prays for some kind of recognition, some part of Bucky to appeal to. "Bucky," Steve pleads. " _Stop._ I know you're in there and I know you can hear me. You can fight this. All you have to do is let go. Just  _let go_. Let go!"

Bucky's eyes close.

Steve shouts incoherently, an anguished, furious sound, not letting go of Bucky's face. He can hardly see, vision blurred with tears. He can feel them sliding down his cheeks, taste the salt, feel the pressure behind his eyes. "Please, Buck," he whispers. "I can't lose you again. I can't. I  _can't._ "

A hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, covers one of Steve's.

"All you need to say is that you agree to my deal and he'll stop. This doesn't have to happen, just accept my terms and—"

"Buck?" Steve wipes his eyes on his bicep, brushing away the tears so he can see. The hand on Bucky's throat is slack now and it falls to the ground, leaving behind angry marks as Bucky sucks in sharply, choking on air, spluttering and shaking in Steve's arms.

Slowly, his eyes open. "You're an ugly crier, Stevie," Bucky says, the corner of his mouth attempting to pull up in a smile. "Now I get why you never do it."

Steve lets out a pathetic hiccup somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Shut up," he says, kissing Bucky's face, ignoring the blood that covers it. He can't stop himself. Bucky's cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, his mouth, every bit of him Steve can get his lips on. "You scared the hell out of me. Never again, Buck, I swear. Never again."

"Promise," Bucky swears, his voice rough and strangled. "I—"

Something rips through Steve's back, tearing through his body, pain erupting inside him. It's such a shock that he can't do anything but look down and see the blood blossoming on the front of his uniform, spreading with each passing second, each beat of his heart. "Oh," he says.

Another shot rings out, the sound of it subdued in Steve's ears, like it's coming from the other side of a long, long tunnel. Bucky pushes him out of the way before it can hit, rolls on top of Steve to cover him. Now, finally, there's something in his eyes: murder. He's off of Steve and throwing the knife before Steve knows what's happening, pin-point precision burying the thing in Pierce's hand just like Clint's arrow had buried itself in Bucky's earlier.

Pierce shouts, dropping the gun and fumbling with the knife, his fingers too slick with his own blood to remove it as Bucky moves across the room and grabs him by the throat, slamming him against the window.

"The thing about making a weapon," Bucky sneers while he cracks Pierce's head against the glass, "is that you have to prepare for the possibility of someone turning it against you."

"Bucky." Steve pushes himself to his feet, trying not to focus on the pain or the blood on his uniform. "Stop."

" _Stop_?" Bucky slams Pierce's head into the window again. "He would've let me kill you, Steve! You think I don't remember that? I remember it  _all_! All of it! Everything they did to me on  _his_  orders! He deserves worse than this. Maybe we should take him up to the roof, throw him off. Or maybe…" He trials off, yanking the knife out of Pierce's hand. "Maybe we should do something slower, huh? Drag it out. A minute for every year he kept me."

"Put. The knife. Down."

Bucky looks over his shoulder, a mixture of fury and disbelief on his face. "He deserves this, Steve. Can't you see that?"

"You're not a killer, Buck," Steve says as he crosses the room slowly, carefully. "That's what they wanted you to be, but that's not who you are."

"It could be," Bucky says quietly.

"But you don't  _need_  to be. You don't need to do this. You don't need his blood on your hands. You're better than he is. He's already taken enough from you, don't let him take something else."

"You should— listen to your— friend," Pierce hisses.

"You should  _shut the fuck up_ ," Bucky spits, and then he does something that Steve can't see because his body is blocking the way, and Pierce's legs, dangling off the ground, go limp.

"Bucky!"

"He's unconscious," Bucky mutters, stepping backwards.

Pierce slumps to the ground but Steve can see the slow rising and falling of his chest. Bucky's is faster, rapidly moving; he's panting hard, the knife still in his hand, and Steve doesn't know what's he's going to do. If he kills Pierce, can Steve blame him? Would he do the same thing? He doesn't know that, either. He thinks he might. A part of him still wants to.

But Bucky. He shakes his head, drops the knife and turns to Steve. "I know how to turn off the lockdown," he intones, emotionless, as he moves toward the desk. "When people think they have you completely under their control, I guess they don't have to worry about what they say around you."

"Wait." Bucky doesn't stop so Steve gently catches his wrist, halting him. "Bucky, look at me for a second, would you?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and looks down. "What?"

Steve pushes Bucky's hair back, says, "Hey," while tilting Bucky's chin up. It's suddenly very important for Bucky to look at him.

Only Bucky refuses. "You're bleeding," he says, concern edging into his tone. "We need to get out of here."

"I'll be fine."

"Yeah, but I  _won't_. Every second you keep me in a room with him is a second closer to me killing him, okay? So let me get us out of here." He finally meets Steve's gaze but his eyes are so guarded that Steve can't read him. "Please."

"Okay." Steve steps back with a nod. "Okay, get us out of here."

Bucky reaches under the desk, hitting something, and Steve waits for some kind of alarm, or loud noise, or anything to tell him that it worked, but it never comes. Instead he hears the pounding of footsteps, a door being broken, and then Natasha is skidding into the room, a gun in each hand, her eye a little swollen and her lip split. She takes one look at Steve, then Bucky, then Pierce on the ground.

"He's not dead, is he?"

"No," Steve answers. Bucky simply walks away, shouldering past her, heading out the way she came in.

"Is he okay?" Natasha asks.

"No." Steve rubs a hand down his face. "No, he's not." He can't think or breathe in this room, and he gets what Bucky said about having to leave. He pats Natasha on the arm, sidestepping her, and adds, "Make sure Pierce doesn't go anywhere."

"Where are you going?"

Steve doesn't answer. He hurries, following Bucky's path, and nearly collides with Sam as he steps off the elevator, Thor at his side. They both look worse for wear, dirty and cut up, but definitely alive and not fatally wounded.

"Have you…?" Steve starts, but Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, turning him away from Thor as he passes. "Sam?"

"He told me to tell you that he'll meet you at home," Sam relays, a solemn twist to his mouth. "Said he needed a bit of time to himself while you explain to us what the hell just happened. Asked me to ask  _you_  not to come after him right away. He said it was more important that you tell us what Pierce said first. Clint went with him."

Steve's teeth dig into his tongue, forcing him not to say the first thing that comes to mind. He takes a moment to let what Sam said sink in, to acknowledge what Bucky wants, and then he nods. If Bucky doesn't want Steve to come after him right now, then— then okay, Steve can accept that. But he's glad Clint went with him. Bucky isn't in a good place right now and Steve can't help but worry about him being alone.

"Okay," Steve mutters, feeling years older than he is, weary, and in need of a shower and a long, long sleep. "Better wait until we meet up with Tony and Bruce. I don't want to have to say this all twice." Sam opens his mouth but Steve stops him. "Don't ask if I'm fine. I'm not."

Sam puts an arm around his shoulder. "That's okay. I'll be fine for us both, then."

Steve manages a grateful smile and leads him to Natasha and Pierce.

 

-o-

 

Steve is pushing open the door to his apartment building when it hits him that, when he said he'd meet Steve at home, Bucky obviously meant his  _own_  home, not Steve's apartment. He's too bloodied and beaten to take a cab there without someone asking questions, though, and the thin hoodie thrown over his uniform isn't nearly enough to disguise him. He needs a shower and a change of clothes, and while he needs to see Bucky, too, one has to come before the other.

No matter how fast he heals with the serum, Steve knows that his ribs and stomach and— damn it, his whole body, it's covered in bruises. Natasha had taken a look at the bullet wound while Steve told them all what happened, and there's a makeshift bandage over it that he's going to have to change when he gets upstairs. All he really wants to do is fall into bed, as is, and sleep until he feels like he can handle everything again, but sleep isn't a luxury he gets to have right now. Not until he makes sure Bucky is okay.

Steve stumbles onto his floor, hoping none of his neighbors decide to take a peek at who's making all the noise in the hallway. It was bad enough last fall when he'd been ambushed in his apartment by six guys and had to lie and say he was doing a new aerobics routine in his living— at four a.m— to excuse the noise; he doesn't think he can explain this one away.

Thankfully he makes it into his apartment unseen, pausing to lean against the closed door as soon as he's inside. He breathes carefully, wincing when every too-deep breath makes his ribs ache, and then he tosses his keys onto the counter and flicks on the light, his familiar paranoia taking the backseat to his exhaustion. He doesn't bother turning on every light and inspecting all the rooms. If someone wants to fight him right now, Steve is too tired to care.

He starts peeling off his uniform as he makes his way to his bedroom, kicking off his boots at random, tossing the helmet onto the floor. Usually he keeps his place spotless, the way his mom always nagged him to, but he'll clean up in the morning. Or tomorrow. Or next year, maybe.

The top of his uniform is hanging down past his waist when he steps into his bedroom and almost screams. Bucky is sitting on his bed, head hanging low, hair falling like a curtain to hide his face. He's nearly naked, his clothes piled on the floor at his feet, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers and socks that were once white and are now stained.

He lifts his head slowly, hands covering the lower half of his face. "He made me put that on," he murmurs around his fingers. "Had to get it off."

Steve looks at the pile of clothes and nods. He bends down, turning his face in case he can't stop himself from grimacing as he does it, and gathers it all in his arms, taking the pile into the kitchen and dumping it into the garbage. He ties the bag off afterwards, walks to the window, and drops it onto the curb down below. In the morning he'll go down there and put it in the dumpster.

When he gets back to the room, Bucky's eyes are crinkled at the sides, though he's not smiling. "Threw 'em out the window?"

"Didn't want them in the apartment," Steve explains, hesitating for only a moment before sitting on the bed. It groans underneath his weight and tips Bucky towards him a little. "I didn't think you'd be here. You told Sam you'd meet me at home. I figured that meant you'd go to your place."

"This is home," Bucky says, his eyes on Steve's chest, roaming down his ribs. "I did that to you."

"Don't," Steve warns with a shake of his head. "It wasn't you."

"It was my fault, Steve," Bucky says, his eyes pleading with Steve to understand. "I  _knew_. I knew something was wrong. I couldn't remember things, and then I was— I was doing things without realizing it. Writing things. Sending my mom emails that I didn't remember typing up. He got inside my head and I knew it was happening but I never said anything, and I nearly killed—"

"But you  _didn't_."

"But I almost did, Steve! Because I wanted to act like everything was okay and it wasn't! I knew it wasn't but I didn't tell you and I should've. I almost got a lot of people killed tonight because I'm a selfish idiot. I wanted to pretend everything was fine even when I knew it wasn't, and I put everyone at risk."

"Listen to me." Bucky tries to look away but Steve doesn't let him. He rests their foreheads together, giving Bucky nowhere to go. "No one died, Buck. We have Pierce in custody. The others are working right now to put an end to everything he was trying to accomplish. We finished it. It's over. It's all over."

Bucky looks steadily into Steve's eyes, his own filled with disbelief and a kind of relief that makes Steve's chest hurt a lot more than anything else he's gone through tonight. "You sure?" Bucky asks, uncertain, like it's too good to be true.

"I promise. He'll never be able to do anything to you, or anyone else, ever again. Because you fought it. You fought it and you won. You were stronger than what they did to you."

"Not strong enough," Bucky mutters, fixating on Steve's wounds again. "I was still inside my head when I did that. It was— it was like being locked in a cell while someone else had control. I knew it was happening and I couldn't stop it. I— I kept hurting you, over and over, and I couldn't stop myself. If Pierce hadn't given the order to bring you in alive, I would've killed you on that roof, Steve. And you would've let me."

Steve shakes his head. "I fought you."

"No, you didn't," Bucky snaps, looking angry. "Don't you dare sit there and act like you gave it your all in that fight. You should've killed me to save yourself but you wouldn't do it. You could've; I've seen you fight, Steve, and you could've beaten me but you didn't even try."

"I tried."

"You tried to save me, but you were willing to let me kill you if you couldn't."

Steve grinds his teeth together and stares straight ahead. "If it comes down to me, or you, that's a choice I refuse to make. And you can't ask me to."

"Yes, I—"

"No, you _can't_ ," Steve says sharply. "Don't act like my life matters more than yours. Don't act like I'd be any better off without you than you would be without me. I  _need_  you, don't you get that? So maybe I would've let you kill me, maybe I was capable of fighting harder, but I  _couldn't_. Okay? I couldn't. I had to save you and I knew I could."

Bucky looks skeptical. "How did you know?"

"Because… I had to," Steve says. "It was the only option."

"It had to," Bucky mocks as he presses his palms to his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Steve. You're a dumbass, you know that?"

Hesitantly, Steve grins. "How long has 'dumbass' been code for 'I love you'?"

Bucky lowers his hands, corner of his mouth tugged up. "Was wondering when you'd figure that out."

"I love you too," Steve tells him. "And we're safe. This is over. Can we just— can we just appreciate that, for a minute, and fight about it later?"

Bucky nods. "Guess we can do that."

Steve hugs him, holding Bucky close, finally giving in to the need to feel him, solid and alive and here, pressed against his body. He doesn't care how much it hurts, so many wounds between them that this really isn't a good time. He clings until he can feel Bucky's pulse against his lips, steady and quiet, and then he clings some more.

"Are you gonna start snotting on me again, Steve?"

"What?" Steve pulls back, frowning. "I'm not—"

"But you were earlier," Bucky says, and he sounds… the asshole sounds  _smug_. "You threw yourself over my body like Romeo and Juliet. And you're Juliet in this scenario, by the way." He makes this weird face, all scrunched up, and starts this high pitched whining. "It was that bad."

Steve elbows him. "That is not what I looked like."

"Cross my heart," Bucky says seriously. "But it's okay if you're an ugly crier. You don't have to be attractive all the time. That's my job."

Steve rolls his eyes, trying and failing not to be amused. "You do a pretty good job of it, too," he admits. "Except for the blood." Bucky wipes at his chin, where most of it is, and Steve catches his wrist. "Your hand."

Bucky frowns down at it, turning it over, palm up. "Pierce wasn't working alone. He had one of his guys wrap it up. I'm gonna give Clint hell for this, you know. Right after I thank him for saving my dad's life."

"Where is he, by the way? Sam said he came home with you."

Bucky looks a little sheepish now. "That's kind of the reason I came here. I told him I was going home and then I bailed on him. He's probably looking for me at my place right now, but I needed a minute by myself, without anyone around or in my head."

"Need another?"

"No. I'm done— I'm done keeping it all in, alright?"

"That's more than alright with me."

"Good." Bucky stands up, offering Steve a hand off the bed. "We need to properly clean these wounds, take a shower, and then sleep. We'll deal with everything else tomorrow. I can't handle anything more tonight."

"I think that's the best idea you've ever had."

"No way," Bucky says as they make their way to the bathroom. "Remember in ninth grade when I put chicken nuggets on pizza?  _That_  was the best idea I ever had."

"That was disgusting."

"Because you have no taste, Steve."

"Clearly. I'm in love with you, after all." He pulls Bucky into his side, planting a kiss on his forehead. "Happy birthday. Didn't get a chance to say that yet."

In spite of everything, Bucky grins. "Don't think I've forgotten about my surprise. I still want it. Whatever it is."

"I was, uh." Steve stalls, pushing open the bathroom door and stepping out of his uniform first. He leans over the tub, turning on the water, and says, with his back turned, "I was going to ask you to move in with me, actually."

He waits, expecting a response, but Bucky doesn't say anything. When he turns around, Bucky is watching him with a guarded, unsure look on his face. "Here," he clarifies. "Like, you want me to move in here."

"Yep."

"Permanently."

"That's generally what moving in together means, yes."

"Like." Bucky tilts his head to the side, licking at his lips. "Like, move my stuff in. Stay here every night. Put my shampoo on the edge of the tub. That kind of thing?"

With the amount of blood he's lost today, it's miraculous that Steve even manages to turn red, but he does. He knows he does. "Never mind," he says. "I was just throwing the idea out there. Just forget about it. It was a stupid —"

Bucky kisses him before he can finish, hands on Steve's waist. Steve kisses back instinctually, probably couldn't stop himself from responding to Bucky's lips even if that meant drawing his last breath from between them, but it only lasts as long as it takes for Bucky to push him up against the sink and for him to gasp in pain and Bucky to hiss.

"Maybe we should continue this when we're not both covered in blood and bruises," Bucky suggest.

"Probably a good idea," Steve admits, though his gaze lingers on Bucky's mouth.

"Not as good as yours."

Steve raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes. I'm saying yes. To moving in with you. I want to."

Steve grins so wide it's a surprise his face doesn't just crack in half with it. "Are you sure? It's kind of a big step."

"Steve, we basically live together already," Bucky reminds him as the room fills with steam. He grabs something on the sink and holds it up. "This is my brush, and I have, like, half my wardrobe scattered around your apartment. And you stay the night at my place all the time. We already live together. This is just… picking one place to stay instead of switching between the two. Did you really think I'd say no?"

Steve shrugs, even though it hurts to do so. "I wasn't sure."

"We just established that we'd  _die_  for each other and you still thought I'd say no?"

He's got a point, but Steve doesn't have to admit that out loud. "Shut up," he says instead. "Let's take a look at your hand and then clean up so we can go to bed."

Bucky rolls his eyes, a teasing tilt to his mouth, but he agrees. It takes twice as long to clean up as it normally does, both of them being as careful as they can, mindful of their own wounds and each other's. The last of Steve's energy swirls down the drain with the water from the shower, and he's not entirely sure how he manages to make it back to the bedroom.

If cleaning up was difficult, getting comfortable in the same bed is impossible. After a handful of necessary phone calls are completed, all Steve wants is to blanket Bucky's body with his own, but every time he touches a part of Bucky's body, one of them hisses in pain.

And then Bucky takes Steve's hand in his left one, hooks his ankle over Steve's, and it's enough. It's a connection, a reminder that they're both alive, and Steve manages nothing more than a tired, whispered, "Night, Buck," before he finally gives in to that exhaustion and passes out.


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky wakes up to light creeping across the floor towards the bed, pouring in through the open curtains. Steve is beside him, cheek resting on his pillow, hand tucked underneath it, with his mouth hanging open and his eyebrows screwed up. It's not the early morning sun that's woken him up; it's Steve, his restless legs tangling the blanket. Past the uneasy look on his face, he's sweating a bit, his chest heaving. Bucky goes to move, sliding one leg to the floor, and Steve jerks violently, roughly grabbing at the blankets covering Bucky's naked body.

" _Stop_ ," Steve hisses. " _Stop!_ "

"Steve."

" _Don't!_ "

Bucky gently shakes his shoulders, trying to wake him without startling him. "Steve, come on. Get up. It's just a dream."

Steve doesn't wake up right away. He tosses a bit longer, encasing himself in a cocoon of the blankets, and then Bucky shakes him hard enough that his eyes fly open and he sits up fast, his hair matted down on one side as he takes a quick sweep of the room like he's checking for any possible adversaries.

When he lands on Bucky, he heaves a deep breath, pushing the blankets away enough to get free, and then he pulls Bucky into him, tight and desperate, apparently unaware of the way Bucky's shoulder is brushing against the edge of his bandage. "You're okay," Steve mutters into Bucky's hair. "You're safe."

"I'm safe," Bucky promises, though the words feel strange in his mouth. It shouldn't be true, and a part of him still doesn't quite believe it, but it is. Pierce has been dealt with. Before they'd went to bed Bucky had called his parents, first (and he still doesn't want to think about how hard that was, or how he had to lie through his teeth to keep them from worrying), and then Steve had called Natasha and the others. When he hung up, Steve told Bucky that they got more information out of Pierce, and that a team was already on their way to apprehend anyone who worked with him.

Finally, after years, Bucky can see the gates of hell closing. Like Steve said last night, it's over. And maybe something like this is never  _really_  over, maybe it'll live with him for the rest of his life, but it's behind him, at least. Something to haunt his nightmares instead of his waking hours.

Steve grips him tighter like he doesn't really believe it yet, either, and Bucky groans as he accidentally leans on his injured hand.  _Fuck_  that hurts. He should probably go to the hospital for it, honestly, and he'll never again internally mock Clint's choice of weapon.

"Crap." Steve pulls away. "Are you okay?"

"We don't all have superhuman healing," Bucky reminds him, holding his right hand away from his body a bit, "but I can handle it. Had worse."

Steve makes a face at that and kisses Bucky's shoulder. "We should—"

Before he can finish, the sound of someone knocking on the door echoes through the apartment. Bucky sits up a little straighter, acutely aware of how naked and, subsequently, vulnerable they are. He can fight naked, he thinks, but it's not exactly a fun sounding idea. All he can picture is dicks flopping around and Steve's bare ass, while Steve gets out of bed and tugs on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt in the time it takes Bucky to decide that the idea of Steve fighting naked is actually more hilarious than concerning.

"Just a second!" he calls as he tosses a shirt to Bucky. "It's Sam."

"How do you  _know_  that?"

"His knock. Just wait, he'll knock again twice to let me know he heard me say I'm coming."

As predicted, Bucky hears two short, sharp knocks, and then silence. He tugs on the shirt Steve tossed him, careful with his hand, as a pair of sweatpants land on the bed next to him.

"What, no underwear?"

Steve rolls his eyes, digs around in the drawer. The boxers hit Bucky in the face.

When Bucky gets up to follow him out the door, he blocks the way and nods to the cellphone on the bedside table. "Call your parents. You barely talked to them last night. They went through a lot, too."

Bucky winces. Last night's conversation had been bad enough, trying to explain to his mother where he was and why he didn't show up to his own birthday party, and trying to assure her that he's fine, really, he's completely, totally, one hundred percent fine. Unsurprisingly, she hadn't really believed him. He's not fine and he could hear it in his own voice last night even as he tried to lie to her.

He feels a little better now, though. Now that he's had time to sleep and put everything into perspective. He won't be  _actually_  fine for a while, he thinks, but he's— he's not falling apart. He's not gone off the deep end yet. He's keeping it together and he thinks that's the best anyone can ask of him, really.

"Alright," Bucky acquiesces.

"Come out when you're done?"

Bucky nods and Steve shuts the door behind him. He scrubs a hand down his face when Steve is gone, eying the phone, and then he determinedly reaches for it and calls before he can talk himself out of it. It has to be done, for Bucky's sake as much as it is for theirs.

He asks about his sisters first. They were asleep last night when he called but he knows they must've been scared. The phone gets passed around like a game of hot potato and Bucky leans back against the pillows, grinning to himself as has sisters tell him about the pool in the hotel, bigger than the one they have at home, and how they ordered French toast for breakfast and it came on a tray with a lid on it and everything, just like the movies.

He talks to his father afterwards, who gets a little more serious. He tells Bucky that the police have checked the house and their security system and they're on the lookout for the red-haired woman who shot out their window. They're staying in the hotel until it's fixed, even though Bucky offers them his apartment, and Bucky silently hopes that Natasha doesn't take the fall for him with this.

When he hangs up, he's happy he called. His sisters always put a smile on his face, without fail, and it's good to know that they're safe and not too shaken up. If he has anything to be grateful for, it's that most of their worries right now are fixing a window, instead of planning a funeral, the way things could've went.

He can hear voices outside the door when he drops the phone onto the bedside table, more than just Sam, too hushed to pick up actual words. Steve's walls are thin enough that they should be louder, but they're probably trying to keep it down so he can talk to his family.

Bucky takes a quick look in the mirror above Steve's dresser. He can't do anything about the bags under his eyes or the pale, pasty look to his skin, and running a hand through his hair only makes it look worse, since he'd went to sleep with it still damp. He doesn't really care, though. Sam's out there, probably with one of the others, and they've all seen him at his worst. He figures slightly traumatized with bedhead is a better look compared to homicidal and mind-controlled.

The moment he steps out of the room, he frowns. It's dim, the curtains in the living room apparently closed, and Steve is grinning at him from where he's standing by the counter, next to something that's on fire.

"What the fu—"

And then the room bursts into a chorus of  _Happy Birthday_  as the entire team tries to squeeze into Steve's kitchen. It takes Bucky a second to react, too stunned to do anything but stand there, and then Natasha comes up behind him, pushing him towards the counter, and his feet move of their own accord, carrying him to Steve and the source of the fire.

The dimmed lights suddenly make a lot of sense. Bucky looks down at the brightly coloured frosting, the swirling  _Happy Birthday, Miranda_ , and raises an eyebrow. "Miranda? I think I'm more of a Carrie."

"It was the only one left at the store," Clint says, shrugging.

"Make a wish," Steve adds.

The candles burn farther down, a bit of wax dripping onto the cake, and everyone is quiet as Bucky contemplates. For his eighth birthday, he'd wished for a Playstation. For his sixteenth, he'd wished for a flashy car. This time, the only thing he thinks he wants is something exactly like this, next year. Everyone together, safe, alive. So that's what he wishes for as he leans down and blows out the candles.

And then he dips his finger in the icing, sucks it off, and says, "Not bad."

"It's a little belated," Steve admits, "but—"

"Nah," Bucky says. "It's perfect."

Sam bumps him out of the way so he can start cutting the cake, Thor pushes open the curtains to let in more light, and it is. It's perfect. After everything else that's happened, Bucky doesn't think he could want for more than this right now. This low-key, impromptu celebration is— it's exactly what he would've asked for, if he had known it was an option.

"Do you and Steve actually have a separate wardrobe?" Natasha asks as she grabs a slice of cake, handing one off to Bucky and keeping the next for herself. "Because I know you can afford your own clothes, and yet you're always in his."

Before Bucky can respond, Sam shoves a box at him. "What is this?" Bucky asks.

"Open it."

Bucky does, a little apprehensive as he reaches into the box and pulls out the thing inside, holding it up to get a better look at it. He laughs when he realizes what it is. "I have my own bobblehead?"

"We each have one," Sam explains. "Figured it was about time you had one, too."

"Yours is more accurate than mine," Clint complains, nudging the head so it wobbles. "They got my hair all wrong."

"I think the head is a little small," Tony interjects. "Definitely not to scale." He grins wickedly at Bucky. "Did you get my gift, by the way? That suit was custom made."

Bucky thinks back to the box on his counter back at his apartment, all the thin, colourful fabric. "No. I didn't."

"You must've missed the delivery man. Don't worry, I wanted to know what it would look like so I photoshopped your face onto the model. One second, I've got the picture on my phone."

Everyone gathers around Tony's phone and Bucky groans, shoveling cake into his mouth to keep from throwing the plate at Tony instead. He hates all of them.

"You have it, don't you?" Steve whispers in his ear, his arms wrapping around Bucky from behind.

Bucky settles back against him, embarrassment draining away. "I might," he admits.

"We'll burn it later."

Befriending Steve really was the best idea Bucky's ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sidenote: I could not find a beta for this so all editing was done by myself and, no matter how long i spent doing so, I do miss things often, so i apologize for any mistakes and will hopefully notice and rectify them in the future.)


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